


E Pluribus, Unum

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, MWPP Era, Marauders, Marauders era, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-01-22 02:06:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 47,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1572092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War is approaching the wizarding world - Imogen Waters, sixteen years old and lifelong friend of the Marauders, knows she was born to be called to arms. But as the skies darken and the ties that bond friends together are weakened, will her plight be all for nothing? </p><p> <br/>Formerly named "bittersweet, between my teeth"<br/>OFC/Sirius Black. Not as dark as it appears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Knee Theory

**Author's Note:**

> I am horrific at summaries, and I don't own Harry Potter.
> 
> I know. What's the point.
> 
> Good news is: I do own Imogen, and I hope you like her.

“Sweetheart! It’s time to go!”

Imogen Waters looked up at the sound of her mother’s voice, and then at the red clock that hung over her door, and abruptly burst into a stream of rather creative cursewords. Some of which included the words ‘canoe’, ‘dick’ and a large helping of ‘fuck’.

“Shiiiiiiiiiiiit,” she hissed eloquently, tossing her creased paperback novel into her trunk. It landed with a _thud_ amongst all the other, similarly-bound books of the trashy romantic nature that were crammed within the small space.

The suitcase was already fit to bursting: Imogen wasn’t a very efficient packer, and her mum (the only other magical being in the family) refused to help, always mumbling something about _learning independence_ and whatnot. Rubbish, fuelled by laziness, she thought.

She unfolded her stockings-clad legs from underneath her and tried to cram the trunk closed, forcing it down with one foot while she contorted herself into unnatural positions and reaching for the zip.

“Imogen?” her dad asked, appearing at her doorway, frowning at her as he munched on some toast. She darted a quick glance at him, before returning to be nose-to-nose with the voluptuous witch on the cover of _Cavorting with Centaurs._

It was obvious as to who she got her organisation skills from, considering he was still in his pyjamas. His blonde hair, usually combed back, was sticking up in several cowlicks she knew he’d spend at least half an hour flattening later.

“Hi dad,” she grunted ungracefully, “’sup?”

“Don’t ’sup me.” He replied. “You know all that teenage lingo confuses my brain.” He waved his toast in emphasis, and a particularly jam-laden bit of it broke off and fell onto his toes.

“Yo, daddyo, what’s the groovy?” Imogen strained out in between grunts, raising an eyebrow at the absolute horror that graced her dad’s expression when he surveyed the remnants of his breakfast. She puffed and sucked in a breath through her nostrils, her fingers straining for the zip.

“You’re making that up.” He moaned pitifully, crouching to rescue the piece of toast.

“Probably.”

“Alas,” Imogen’s dad cried, holding out the toast for her to inspect, “it seems to be covered in your stupid cat’s hair.”

Indeed, clinging to the piece of bread was several long strands of cat fur.

“Genghis Khan is _not_ stupid,” she retorted, grinning in triumph as her fingers closed round the elusive zip.

“You’re only saying that out of _fear._ ”

“Dad.”

“Yes?”

“Gengy is a precious, fluffy, white kitten named after a very ruthless historical figure. She’s not scary.”

“She’s different when _you’re_ around.” He mumbled, placing the toast back on the floor, presumably for Genghis Khan to eat later. Despite his (loudly-proclaimed) misgivings about the feline, not a day goes by without her dad 'accidentally' dropping food for her to find.

Imogen straightened as the zip _finally_ slid into place, securing her trunk.

“Are you excited to go back to Pigboils?” He peered into the mirror mounted on her dresser, and frowned at his crumb-and-jam caked reflection. He patted his hair frantically to try and flatten it, but to no avail.

“ _Hogwarts,_ Dad.”

“Pigboils is funnier.” Her father said dismally, wiping jam from his chin.

“I think you’re alone in that opinion.”

“Ivy laughed.”

“Ivy laughed when she was five years old and thought you were the funniest thing in the world, Dad.”

He cast her an injured look. “I _am_ the funniest thing in the world.”

She smiled indulgently. “I know, Dad.”

“I’ll miss you, love.” He came away from the mirror and set his hands upon her shoulders. His expression was, as it tended to be in regards to his oldest child, soft.

“I’ll write, don’t worry.”

He nodded. “Make sure those Mirandas –”

“ _Marauders_.”

“Right. Make sure those Marauders look after you, alright?”

Imogen almost snorted at the idea of the four boys _looking after_ her. Images of Sirius and James feeding her firewhiskey from a large jug flooded her vision, but she - wisely - decided not to share that particular piece of information with her overprotective father. In fact, her whole career at Hogwarts suddenly became a montage of general miscreancy in her mind's eye at that moment: memories of detentions, of letters to her parents disrupted mid-flight, of too much alcohol - Imogen tried not to giggle nervously.

The Marauders, _looking after_ her. It was probably the other way round, but her father still saw her as the tiny eleven-year-old in robes too big for her, waving from a train window.

“’Course they will, Dad. You know James always looks out for me.”

Which was sort of true, anyway. At least, he always - weirdly - insisted she put on a beanie when it was cold outside. Or, he jammed one over her head and pushed her through the portrait hole, anyway. Always had a good laugh when she tumbled through.

Her dad nodded, looking satisfied. “Good. Your mum’s ready to go, she’s waiting downstairs. She’s done some diddly to the car so it’ll go faster.”

“Dad, just call it _magic._ ”

“Shan’t.”

“ _Dad._ ”

Imogen rolled her eyes as her father, a man of forty-six years and the headmaster of a prestigious boys’ school in London, stuck his fingers in his ears and began a loud chorus of “Happy Birthday”.

It wasn’t her birthday.

She sighed as he waltzed out of her room, stopping to shriek girlishly as Genghis Khan meowed innocently at him on her way to Imogen. He cast the kitten a suspicious glare as he walked down the stairs, continuing on his ridiculous singing.

Imogen bent to pick Gengy up around the middle, depositing the little ball of fluff in her coat pocket. From there, she peeped out over the dark material, her cute little nose doing the cute little wrinkly thing. Imogen cooed, stroking her head. “Who’d be scared of you?” she asked.

Gengy meowed in agreement. Or hunger. One couldn’t be sure, with cats.

“IMOGEN,” Ivy, her younger sister bellowed, “MUM’S GOING TO HAVE A FIT IF YOU DON’T HURRY.”

“Merlin,” Imogen muttered, grabbing her trunk and hurrying out the door.

Ivy was standing at the bottom of the stairs, twisting her riotous blonde curls, similar to Imogen’s, into a sloppy bun. At fourteen, she was already taller than her older sister, was graced with the kind of curves that made her dad threaten to buy a gun, in order to shoot any ‘gentlemen callers’ that dared to pursue the younger Water lady.

She wore pink leggings cut off at the knee, and an oversized t-shirt. A purple yoga mat was tucked under her arm. “Make sure you fit some yoga in at Hogwarts,” she reminded Imogen, “it’s great for your bum.”

What Ivy had in curves, Imogen lacked, being small in the tits and arse area. Apparently, yoga built up muscle in the legs and pushed up your bum, but she’d been doing it all summer, coupled with her running, and she hadn’t seen any improvements yet. Still, she was flexible as hell now.

As proven by the tea fiasco last week, for which her dad was still stroppy about.

Imogen, charmed by her newly-found flexibility, had tried to put her dad’s tea-bag in boiling hot water with only her toes and had subsequently tipped said boiling hot water onto her dad’s shoes. He wasn’t in them, of course, but the shoes were ruined and so was his mood.

Imogen had also inherited her dad’s clumsiness.

“Will do,” she assured her sister, frowning as she tugged the trunk down another step. She briefly became horrified at the prospect of it bursting open at King's Cross, and all her trashy novels spilling out for everyone to see.

“Make sure you write me, cow.”

“Of course, bint.”

They smiled fondly at each other.

“SWEETHEART.” Their mother roared, from the front door. “HURRY OR WE’LL MISS THE TRAIN.”

Ivy shared her mother’s penchant for being loud.

“’Bye, love you both!” Imogen called, waving as she hurried towards her mum.

Ivy and her dad yelled back mumbled _'bye_ s, the family having said their proper farewells the night before.

Mrs Waters was a medi-witch, tall and curvy as Ivy, with high cheekbones and a pretty smile. She was intelligent, resourceful, and completely bemused by her husband’s antics. She wore a red coat and matching lipstick, her curly dark hair (Ivy and Imogen had gotten their blonde locks from their dad) pulled back into a ponytail.

“Come on!” she ushered Imogen out the door with flappy-hand gestures, tapping the trunk with her wand to make it feather-light.

“Oh, _now_ you help,” Imogen remarked.

“Don’t sass me, sweetheart.” Her mum replied, hoisting the trunk into the car’s boot. It made worryingly loud rattling noises, swayed, and then was still.

“I wasn’t _sassing_ -“

“Sass.”

“Mum.”

“Ssh, too much sass.” Mrs Waters hummed as she slid into the drivers’ seat. She started the engine, and flipped open her handy little notebook of directions on muggle life, presumably checking her husband’s instructions on how to drive to King’s Cross.

Imogen rolled her eyes, and settled back in her seat. Gengy poked her head from her pocket, mewling.

“Another school year begins, Gengy.”

 

*.*

 

“’Bye, sweetheart!” Mrs Waters called as she made her way back to platform 9 and ¾. “Make sure you write!”

“’Bye, mum!” Imogen called back, peering through the thick throng of relatives and students to wave at her mother.

Soon, Mrs Waters had disappeared, and Imogen turned back to face the massive crimson body of the Hogwarts Express.

It never failed to strike her with a sense of awe, did the train. It was a beautiful piece of machinery, all glowing metal and vivacious with magic. It didn’t hurt that she associated many good memories with it, either. Five years (not counting this one) of travelling to and from her cherished Hogwarts’ School for Witchcraft and Wizardry with her friends and peers made it one of her favourite places to be.

Imogen grunted, vastly attractively, as she pushed her trunk into one of the carrier compartments. The spell making it weightless had worn off, leaving her with what seemed like a suitcase full of bricks. She had a feeling her mum had done that on purpose. Somehow, she managed, and the trunk remained intact.

She had just lugged it into the storage space, her forehead red and sweaty, when someone coughed behind her. She turned, coming face-to-face with the one-and-only (in his opinion) James Potter.

“James!” Imogen cried, grinning widely.

“Immy!” he cried back, pushing his wire-rimmed spectacles up his nose. His hair was perfectly unkempt, sticking up in wild clumps, and he smiled at her with a sort of cocky ease that seemed to be common amongst the Marauders. Perhaps they all took a course. _How to be a likeable rogue in ten easy steps,_ or something of the sort.

He'd grown over the summer, she noticed. He seemed sharper; that childhood roundness now completely gone from his features. Taller, too, and broader in the shoulders. His clothes were rumpled, the crisp white shirt he wore under his coat untucked, and his shoelaces untied. All of it, she suspected, had been carefully done so that the leader of the infamous Marauders looked as close to a scoundrel as possible without appearing unattractive.

The small gaggle of third-year girls standing a little way off behind him, each with adoring expressions, were a testament to the fact that he had succeeded.

She dropped the grin. “ _Immy?_ ” she asked.

He pouted. “Evans gets to call you Immy.”

“ _Lily_ has called me Immy since we were eleven. You’ve only ever called me Imogen, Gen, or Waters. Stick to that.”

“Not fair.” He grumbled, running his hands through his hair. “Not fair at all.”

Imogen laughed. “Help me find a compartment?”

“No.”

“Why not?” she whined.

“You’re mean.”

“I’m really not.”

James opened his mouth to argue, then closed it abruptly. He squinted at her face, then peered at her legs. His expression was critical. The group of girls sighed enviously at the attention he paid to her stockinged calves. Imogen rolled her eyes at his antics. James was one of her closest friends, had been since she’d accidentally spilled pumpkin juice on Remus in her first year and James had dumped an entire goblet-full on her head in revenge, sparking a food fight that lasted two hours, resulted in a months’ worth of detention and a solid friendship. However, he could be a right idiot sometimes. Many a telling-off from McGonagall had resulted from various schemes that James had managed to involve her in, somehow.

“Oi,” she said indignantly, “eyes up, mate.”

“You’ve done something.” He replied, still eyeing her knees.

She looked down at herself. What she was wearing- stockings, boots, warm coat- was no different to her usual outfit. Her boots _were_ relatively new, though, a gift for her sixteenth birthday. Maybe that was it.

“My boots are new.” She informed him, proudly, and he shook his head.

“That’s not it.”

“My knees look like little faces are trying to get out of my skin?”

“No, something _new_.”

Imogen punched him on the shoulder. “I was joking!”

He looked up from his deliberation to give her a cursory frown. “Ow, you’re so _violent._ ”

“You think my knees look like little faces!”

“Well, yeah! They do!” James cried, rubbing his shoulder.

“They do _not_.”

“They do. The left one looks angry and the right one looks upset about something. Dunno about what, though.” He wrinkled his brow and pouted, apparently deep in thought.

“Maybe,” Imogen said darkly, “ _someone_ told them that their knees looked like _faces!_ ”

James scoffed. “Don’t be daft,” he chortled, “knees don’t have knees.”

“I’m going to curse off your manly bits –”

“Wahey there,” Sirius Black said, pushing past a few fifth year boys to join them, “what’s this I hear about manly bits?”

As always, the only member of the Black family in Gryffindor looked effortlessly handsome. He wore mostly muggle clothing, like James, only he wore scuffed jeans and a white shirt under a leather jacket, his dark hair falling messily into his eyes, and a roguish grin. Merlin, _he'd_ grown over the summer, too. Was that another secret boy thing she wasn't privy to? Or was she the only one who had to remain _stunted_?

“I’m about to hex off James’.” Imogen informed him, bumping her shoulder with his in a way of greeting. Or as near to his shoulder as she could, considering she was about a foot shorter than him. As it was, she kind of bumped his bicep.

“Why?” he asked, bumping back.

Sirius had become her friend by association around the same time James had, dropping into the seat next to her during Transfiguration the day after the food-fight, grinning his lopsided grin and offering her some Honeydukes chocolate. Apparently, she’d been labelled as ‘a groovy kind of chick’ by James (who had been keeping up with the muggle lingo), and thus worthy as a friend. Of course, he hadn't really needed to say much after she'd whipped the chocolate from his grasp and wolfed it down in one bite.

“He said my knees looked like little faces.” she cried indignantly, but he only grinned.

“Ah, yes, the knee theory.”

“What the bloody hell is the _knee theory?_ ” Imogen demanded, her voice rising. She folded her arms and glared at him in a way that had been dubbed _the look_ by James.

Disappointingly, Sirius didn’t look scared. At all. If anything, his expression was amused. “Well, James here reckons that your knees look… what was it?” he turned to his best friend.

“Angry and upset.”

“That’s the one. Angry and upset. Or two,” he added, “if you want to get technical.”

“You absolute bastards.” Imogen shrieked, causing James to wince. He, at least, was not immune to _the look_. “Who else knows about this?”

“Nobody!” Sirius replied, perhaps a little too quickly. “Nobody _at all_.”

She narrowed her eyes at them. “Really.” She said flatly.

“Yup.”

“Mhm.”

Imogen sighed, and reached out to pull them towards the train. They didn’t protest, being used to her habit of sort of nudging people to where she wanted them to be. Imogen was of tiny stature, and using the two six-foot-something boys as human shields to get through crowds was something of a tradition, anyway.

She hooked her fingers in their sleeves, steering them up the stairs and onto the Hogwarts Express. It was five to eleven, and they still had to find their other friends – plus, a compartment to house all of them.

“Can you see the others?” she asked, standing on her tiptoes to try and see past the boys’ shoulders.

“Noooo,” James replied, peering unashamedly into other students’ compartments. They stared back, astonished, as he pressed his nose to the glass. He gave each of them a demented smile, crossing his eyes.

“James.” Imogen nudged him, and he craned his neck to look at her. “What are you doing?”

“Scaring the first-years.”

“That’s not scary, that’s just odd.”

“Like _you_ could do any better.”

“I could!”

“Yeah,” Sirius chuckled, “if I lifted you up to see over the ledge.”

“I’m not _that_ small.” Imogen huffed.

Sirius raised an eyebrow at her.

“I can still hex you into Christmas.” She muttered, as he reached down to pat her head.

“So cute,” he said to James, who nodded sagely.

“Adorable.”

“I hate you both,” she hissed, and pushed them forwards.

As they moved down the long corridor in search of their friends, Imogen had time to survey the mix of students (she _could_ see over the window ledge, thank you very much Sirius Black) that sat in their compartments or filtered through the doors and into their path.

Slytherins sat together, huddled in small groups but always sparing them a mocking glance, identifiable by their hostile expressions and expensive clothes. They sent the two Marauders a scathing look, especially Severus Snape (whom James and Sirius sneered at in return, uncharacteristically malicious), then returned to their discussions.

Imogen glared back, holding the gaze of Mulciber in particular – they’d formed a highly potent animosity ever since third year, often culminating in nasty hexes and quick-muttered curses. Snape ignored her, for the most part, as he did with the majority of Lily's friends. She twisted her mouth in a grimace; she was conflicted about that boy. He was Lily's best childhood friend, her confidante, but ever since that moment the previous year - _I don't need help from a filthy little mudblood like her_ \- she knew she couldn't trust him. Still, the beginnings of pity stirred in her gut when she regarded his miserable expression, his deep-sunken eyes.

“Bastards.” Sirius remarked, waving mockingly at the Slytherin sixth-years.

“Arseholes.” James agreed.

Imogen pushed them on, her tangled mane of hair falling into her eyes every few seconds. She blew a puff of air, trying to move it out the way. As they walked, she asked the boys about their summers – although there wasn’t much to tell, considering she’d written to them almost every week.

James’ letters were always brilliant, full of funny stories and his familiar scrawled hand-writing. He didn’t really follow any kind of format: the margins were often covered in side-notes and little doodles of Quidditch paraphernalia, and sometimes he would stop mid-sentence to recount a fond memory. Mostly, he whined about Lily Evans and how little attention she paid to him, which was endlessly amusing.

His last letter before Imogen had seen him had been particularly entertaining:

 _Dear Waters,_ it had read.

 _I hope you’re well. Same goes for your family- say hi to your dad for me, tell him that the Cannons lost_ another _match, the bastards. All my love to your beautiful mother, of course, and tell your sister to drop me a note when she’s sixteen._

_Joking, Waters, don’t give me the look. My heart belongs to Evans._

_Speaking of the minx herself – has she mentioned me at all?_

And that set the tone for the rest of his letter.

Sirius, however, tended to keep with their tradition they’d begun the summer after first year. Not knowing what to talk about, and after a few letters of rather boring scribblings about their day, Sirius had decided to play a Muggle game he’d heard about called twenty questions. She suspected it had been more of a rebellion in the face of his parents than anything - a proverbial _fuck you_ to the fascist figures he lived with.

His letters often went like this:

_Waters –_

_What would you do if money wasn’t a problem?_

_Favourite music?_

_Favourite movie?_

_Why do you wear clothes that are too big for you?_

Et cetera, et cetera.

It was an odd friendship, really. They only ever talked about anything _important,_ or personal, through pen and ink. Where James and Imogen could talk for hours about anything (a bizarre example would be when they had idly wondered how much noise a duck would make falling from one hundred feet onto grass), Sirius seemed to avoid heavy subjects with her. Despite the fact they had been friends for almost five years, they had never engaged in in-depth conversations – at least not face-to-face. Even then, Imogen never dared to ask him questions that went beyond his favourite pastime.

But, it wasn’t as if she didn’t trust him. She did, with her life. The other Marauders, too. In fact, all her friends had earned her trust over the years. She knew that, if the moment arose, they would trust her with their lives too. But it was a kind of faith in them that was borne from years spent going through the same motions, the same sense of camaraderie one received from being sorted into the same house. You didn't have to _know_ your family to have their back.

“Oi! Waters!” Augustus King, a fellow sixth-year Gryffindor with whom she’d been best friends with since the train ride in first year, stuck his head out from two compartments ahead and grinned at her.

“Gus!” she waved, and steered Sirius and James towards his beckoning hand.

“We’ve been waiting for you lot,” he scolded as they entered.

Tall and lanky as all buggery, Augustus often teased Imogen for her height, albeit good-naturedly. That was perhaps what best described him: good-natured. He was incredibly easy-going, gifted with social graces that ensured he got along with almost _everybody,_ even the Professors. He had smatterings of freckles across both cheeks and the bridge of his nose, big blue eyes, and a wide mouth.

“Sorry, Gus. These two held me up.” Imogen replied, to the mock outrage of James and Sirius.

Inside the compartment sat Remus Lupin, tired-looking but kind as always, nervously waving Peter Pettigrew, and Ravenclaw sixth-year Samantha Jones.

Samantha, or Sammy as she was more often referred to as, was as popular as Gus was in terms of friendliness. She was closer to Remus than any of the other Marauders, being a bit too timid for their liking, with a fondness for hiding behind books and her dark hair. Imogen and she had met in second-year DADA, and had been good friends ever since. She wasn’t especially outgoing, but possessed a gentle kindness that put many people she encountered at ease.

“Hullo, lads and ladies,” Sirius crowed, plopping down in the seat next to Remus, “you’ve all had good summers, I hope?”

A chorus of _yeah, s’alright_ s and _not too bad_ s erupted at this, with the lot of them animatedly waving their arms about and quizzing each other. As was custom, they all started chatting at the same time, interjecting into different conversations left and right, or simply spouting a monologue, without paying any mind as to the noise they were making.

“Padfoot ’n me went to a muggle pub, it was _great._ ”

“Yeah, my mum’s a bit better, thanks for asking. Still on the peaky side, mind.”

“D’you reckon the trolley lady’ll give me a few sickles off on a chocolate frog? I’ve got my eye on Bathilda Bagshot, I haven’t got her yet.”

“My knees don’t look like little faces, do they?”

“Is that a _cat_ in your pocket?”

“I read Jane Eyre over the summer, you’re right, it _was_ brilliant.”

“Met this blonde bird, from Australia. Her _accent_ , mate, it was gorgeous.”

“We got bloody _wankered,_ I woke up in a dress!”

“My cousin loves that book, she made me read it last year.”

“I only have eleven sickles…”

“Maybe if I just stand with my knees slightly bent… Ha! Brilliant.”

“It is, it’s a bloody cat!”

“So… you don’t like it?”

“She had a wicked sense of humour, and a bloody _tan_. Golden brown skin…”

“ – and there was lipstick _all over my –_ ”

“ – no, it’s a great book, a bit long –”

“ – she’s always liked me –”

“ – oh, nope. They still look like faces –”

“ – when did you get a cat? –”

“ – but the descriptions –”

“ – she’s going to write to me –”

“ – Pads here, ever the ladies’ man –”

“ – too many ejaculations –”

“ – and I wanted a pumpkin pasty, too –”

“ – has anyone else heard about the knee theory –”

“ – I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you had a cat –”

“ – I am no bird, and no net ensnares me –”

“ – and we’ll have little bush ranger children and they’ll go to school via kangaroo –”

“ – three dwarves, a transvestite and her pet goat challenged us to a game of charades –”

“ – Mister Rochester’s a bit of a twat, though –”

“ – I’m bloody broke, could you lend us some money –”

“ – I’ll ask old Sluggie, he’ll tell me –”

“ – it’s staring at me, Waters –”

“ – the whole fortune-teller business was a tad strange –”

“ – _Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda_ –”

“Immy, are you – oh.” Lily Evans slid open the compartment door, interrupting the cacophony and causing James to practically leap out of his seat.

“Evans!” he proclaimed, grinning and running his hands through his hair. “Good summer?”

“Yes, thank you.” she replied tersely, pressing her lips together.

Lily looked pretty as always, her thick red hair brushed and falling into perfect waves over her shoulder. She wore high-waisted jeans that clung to her curves, showing off her long legs, and a knitted jumper, the sleeves of which she’d pushed up to her elbows in the warmth of the Hogwarts Express. The outfit, although simple, looked like something out of a fashion magazine when it was on her petite frame. She surveyed James coolly, her emerald eyes critical and her eyebrow raised.

There was a beat of silence.

James gave a gasp of mock injury. “Aren’t you going to ask me about _my_ summer, Evans?”

“No.” she replied rudely.

He clasped his hand to his heart, leaning against the window for support. “ _Why?_ ”

Imogen rolled her eyes as his bum invaded the space around her head, wiggling dramatically. She cringed and leaned away from it, much to the others’ amusement. Peter, who was seated next to her, put a pudgy hand over her eyes, murmuring something about _protecting her virtue._ She scoffed at him and he gave her a timid smile.

Lily sighed. “Because, Potter, you sent me about a hundred letters telling me _all about it_.”

“I like to keep my future-girlfriends informed.”

Lily ignored this, instead folding her arms and fixing him with a dark frown. “How did you even get my address, Potter?”

James grinned loftily. “I have my sources,” he said, with a shifty sort of air.

Lily cast her sharp glare onto Imogen, who smiled sheepishly. “It was Immy, wasn’t it?”

James deflated. “How do you _do_ that?”

“Immy!” The red-haired girl exclaimed, betrayal written over her pretty features.

“He threatened to steal my knickers again!” Imogen exclaimed.

Remus choked on the chocolate he always seemed to have in steady supply, sputtering out a shaky “ _What?_ ” Out of all the Marauders, he was the most prudish, and tended to not respond kindly to description of his friends' underwear.

“I wasn’t being serious.” James said defensively. “I wouldn’t _touch_ your knickers –”

“You already have! Fourth year, hanging from the Astronomy Tower. Hence, the _again._ ”

“Those were yours?” Sammy exclaimed. “Huh.”

“Yeah, but that was back when they were pink and normal.”

Imogen raised her eyebrows, mouth open. “As opposed to _what_?”

He fidgeted. “L… lacy.”

Gus burst into laughter. “ _Lacy?_ Ooh, Waters, you _slag._ ”

“Shut up, King!”

“And black. Lacy and black.”

“JAMES.”

“Double whammy!” Gus crowed. “Black _and_ lacy! The ultimate slag-fest.”

“At least there’s no thongs.” Sirius commented dryly, flashing a wolfish grin.

“How would you know?” Imogen replied archly.

He merely grinned wider, interlacing his fingers and placing them behind his head.

“ANYWAY,” Lily interrupted, just as Imogen was ready to draw her wand and perform a rather vicious hex (she was quite well-known for her penchant for the Nostril Sticker, a curse that sealed the nasal passages closed with mucous for a minimum of four hours), “I was just popping in to ask Immy about her summer.”

“It was lovely, thanks.” she replied, taking her hand away from her wand, much to Sirius' relief.

“How’s Gengy?”

“Oh!” Imogen pulled the kitten from her pocket, much to the surprise of everyone – for magical beings, they were amazingly unused to animals being pulled out of various items of clothing – except for Sirius (who had spotted it earlier), and deposited her on her lap. “She’s good.”

“Ohhh,” Sammy breathed, leaning forward from her seat on the other side of Remus, “she’s _adorable._ ”

Gengy mewled smugly as the dark-haired girl petted her carefully with one finger.

“Gengy?” Peter queried.

“Short for Genghis Khan.”

At this, Lily let loose a tiny giggle that sounded like wind-chimes. James looked as if he was about to fall over, his eyes glazed. Smitten, that one.

“Genghis… Khan.” Remus muttered, his brow creased. “I’ve heard that before.”

“He’s a muggle, isn’t he?” Sammy asked.

“Dunno,” Sirius replied, and reached forward to give the cat a stroke.

Immediately, she hissed and made a swipe at him, and he pulled his hand back abruptly.

“Bloody _hell_ ,” he blurted, cradling his injured fingers, “she’s exactly like you, Waters.”

“Oi!” Imogen retorted, gathering poor Gengy back into the depths of her coat, where she purred contentedly.

Sammy slid back into her seat, disappearing behind another thick book. Peter giggled nervously.

Lily emitted another gusty sigh at their antics, and beckoned to Remus. “We’ve got Prefect duty, Lupin. Come on. Oh, and Potter?”

“Yes, dearest?” he replied, smiling in a way he probably thought was winning, but only served to make him look a tad demented.

“I really don’t care about your Quidditch escapades. Please stop writing to me.”

James only sat back down after they had left, collapsing down next to Imogen. Or, partly on top of her, as he with his gangly limbs was wont to do. She shifted, uncomfortable underneath one of his arms. He sighed, his expression wistful. “She will love me.”

“How’d you reckon that, mate?” Gus asked wryly, brushing his reddish-brown hair back from his forehead.

“I wrote about my Quidditch in my second-last letter.”

“And…?” Peter pressed.

“ _That means she read at least one!_ Last year – _last_ year – she sent them all back! I, my friends,” he declared, brandishing one finger in the air, “am in with a chance!”

“Sure mate,” Sirius said, reaching over to pat James’ shoulder, “even if it’s a slim one.”

 

*.*

Imogen sat in between Remus and James, opposite Sirius, and chugged down a goblet-full of pumpkin juice to the rhythmic thuds of their fists hitting the table.

“Scull! Scull! Scull!” They chanted, as she downed the last of it.

She set down the cup with a bang, throwing her arms in the air as the Marauders and several other sixth-year Gryffindors cheered. “How long?” she asked Peter, breathlessly.

He frowned at the small pocket-watch Remus had transfigured for him, having bagsed being the time-keeper. “Twenty-two seconds. Four down from last year!”

She cheered again, high-fiving James and wiping away the remnants of juice that had escaped the goblet from her mouth.

The Chugging, as Peter had dubbed it, was something of a tradition at every Sorting Feast that had sparked from the infamous food fight between her and James. So far, her personal best had been exactly twenty seconds in her third year- but there was always time for improvement.

“Gentlemen,” Imogen began grandly, waving her goblet in the air, “today, I have _chugged,_ and it was _beautiful._ ”

The air was filled with resounding _hear hear_ s, and the sound of glasses clinking. James slung an arm over her shoulders, wiping away a fake tear. “Gen, I am _so proud_ ,” he gasped, biting his lip.

“Thanks, dearest.” She patted his cheek, giving an exaggerated hair-flick. “I do try.”

Peter giggled hysterically, covering his face with both hands at their capers.

The only person not smiling was Sirius, who was eyeing her sleeve suspiciously. She sighed.

“Gengy’s upstairs with my other things, Black. Don’t worry about it.”

“Your cat is evil.” He said venomously. “It… stares.”

“Oh, she _stares,_ does she? How awful. I’ll get rid of her right now.” Imogen said flatly, rolling her eyes.

“Turn the sass down a notch, Waters. Wouldn’t want to strain yourself,” he shot back, frowning at her lack of concern for his well-being.

“I am _not_ –”

“Say, Immy,” James asked, cutting her off, “is Genghis Khan… _enamoured_ to animals of the, ah, _canine_ persuasion?” He propped his chin on his fist, batting his eyelashes at her.

She leaned away from him, frowning. “Uh, no. She isn’t. Hates them.”

Remus snorted into his glass of water, slopping the liquid down his front.

“What?” she asked.

He shook his head, taking the napkin that Peter offered him and trying his best to mop up the wetness of his shirt. “Nothing, Imogen.”

She narrowed her eyes. Remus had a habit of switching back to full names when he was nervous. “Lupin,” she warned, and gave him _the look_. "Please tell me this isn't going to somehow land me in detention."

He laughed, albeit nervously. “Seriously, Gen,” he reassured, “’s nothing.”

“Right.” Imogen said, and left it.

Judging from the expression on her friend’s face – the fading smile – it was nothing to do with her. She was no stranger to the fact that Remus had secrets, awful ones, none of which she was privy to. She wasn’t _stupid,_ for Merlin’s sake. She’d seen the scars that littered his body, the kind of dependency with which he clung to his friends, particularly the Marauders. She knew his problems ran far deeper than his mother’s health.

However, she also saw the way he lit up as soon as he was with them, as if all his worries had simply vanished in their wake, and it was enough for her. She didn’t need to know, wasn’t even sure if she _wanted_ to, and seeing one of her closest friends find solace was satisfactory enough.

Imogen and Remus hadn’t actually become friends when she’d accidentally spilled that pumpkin juice on him almost five years ago. In fact, it was only halfway through the first year, after many awkward encounters when Sirius and James had waltzed off, leaving her and the timid boy to make conversation, that they had decided to get to know each other.

After that, they realised that they’d had their love for books in common (despite the fact that Imogen was able to devour almost anything, while Remus had very _refined_ taste), and their unhealthy respect for chocolate. It was a wonder they both weren’t rolling around the castle, actually, with the amount of sweets they both put away.

“Oi, arseholes,” Gus stage-whispered from a little way down the table, “Dumbledore’s speeching, shut your faces.”

Imogen went to roll her eyes, but they were too sore from all the eye-rolling she was subjected to by this stage so she stuck her tongue out at him instead.

“Welcome!” Dumbledore began, his magically magnified voice echoing throughout the Great Hall. “Welcome, students, to another year at Hogwarts!”

He was dressed in finery, his robes a brilliant shade of periwinkle and his matching hat standing straight and tall. His long, silvery-white hair was long and luxuriant, his half-moon spectacles twinkling merrily in the candlelight. He clasped his hands together, a wide grin stretched across his mouth, almost from ear-to-ear.

All at once, Imogen felt a sense of calm and serenity settle amongst her fellow peers, almost as tangible and as much a physical presence as James sitting beside her.

“I am glad to see that you are all well as can be. Congratulations to all the first-years who are sorted and fed, I wish you a wonderful _good luck_ on your journey through this marvellous school!”

A cough from McGonagall diverted his attention for a moment. “Ah,” he said, “if I do say so myself. Now, for announcements, a new Muggle Studies teacher will _also_ be embarking upon a journey with us. I hope his fresh approach and contagious zeal will be a lovely influence upon us all. Please give a warm welcome to Professor Cumberstone!”

Murmurs from the Slytherin table came in place from applause. None of them wanted to welcome the new Professor for _Muggle_ Studies. Or at least, none of them wanted to in front of the Junior Death Eaters: Bellatrix Black, Narcissa Black and her fiancée (ugh) Lucius Malfoy, Mulciber and Avery. Not to forget Regulus Black, in the younger years – Sirius’ brother – but everyone seemed to anyway.

There were a fair few others that Imogen was wary of, ones that had greeted her in the hallways with curt nods before the end of fifth year, but now were game enough to hiss _half-breed_ or _mudblood_ behind her back.

Snape took no part in the murmurings, instead staring moodily at his hands. His greasy hair and too-small robes made him stick out like a sore thumb in amongst the finery of the Pureblood families, but there was no denying he’d been able to climb the discriminative ladder into abstract respect. Didn’t seem to make him any happier, though.

Imogen turned her thoughts and her gaze away from the Slytherin table just as Professor Cumberstone stood from his place at the teachers’ table.

A collective gasp went up from the female population (and a few from the male) of Hogwarts, as possibly the best-looking man Imogen had _ever_ seen (and she hung out with the Marauders on a regular basis) gave a small grin and a shy wave at the rapidly-increasing-in-volume applause.

“Merlin’s _tits_ ,” she sighed, ignoring the odd looks the others gave her, “I want his address so I can send his parents flowers.”

Professor Cumberstone was tall, not overly muscular but with the strong shoulders and narrow hips of a swimmer. He was lean, with a sharp jawline and aristocratic features, and curly dark hair that flopped in the _perfect_ way over one of his eyes. The colour of which, she couldn’t see, but she was _damned_ glad she’d taken Muggle Studies that year, and knew she’d probably find out later.

He wore Muggle clothing, instead of the robes and hat that teachers usually favoured, with dark dress pants and a crisp white shirt tucked in, showing off his svelte figure. To make matters worse, the shirt was slightly unbuttoned at the neck, and his sleeves were rolled up to reveal strong forearms. He looked adorably embarrassed, scratching the tip of his nose with one, long finger and staring at the ground.

“ _Immy,_ ” Lily mouthed at her from down the table, widening her eyes. “He’s beautiful!”

“I _know_ ,” Imogen mouthed back, and ignored James’ huff of irritation from behind her.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. “Hm, thank you.” he began, his voice tinged with amusement. “Settle down now, please. Yes, thank you, all. Before you all return to your dormitories, I would like to address more… _serious_ matters.”

A hush fell over the Great Hall. No-one had been blind to the dark goings-on that plagued Muggle villages and towns, festering within the deepest corners of Pureblood families. Imogen had kept well-informed by her mum, who liked to read both the Muggle newspaper and the _Daily Prophet,_ and was obviously wary of the suspicious and downright horrific activities taken on by Purebloods, particularly those of Slytherin heritage.

She shared a glance with Sirius, whose expression had become dark and brooding. He never reacted well to reminders of his family’s crimes.

“As you all know, the idea of Pureblood supremacy has become increasingly popular, particularly amongst those of that heritage.” Dumbledore’s eyes strayed towards the Slytherin table, where Lucius Malfoy stared back at him.

Imogen couldn’t see much of his expression, but his ramrod posture and nose in the air ensure her it was a smug one.

“In the words of the great Mark Twain, ‘if you should ever find yourself on the side of the majority, step back, and reconsider’. Students, teachers, friends; I warn you – the establishment is not always right. Social norms are not always virtues. Question things; and before you think outside the box, know every inch of the box, and then construct your own exit.”

“Did the Headmaster just tell us, basically, to _stick it to the man_?” Gus whispered, and Imogen shushed him.

Dumbledore’s words struck a chord within her. They resounded in her heart and head, filled her with a sense of longing, a tingling excitement- and most of all, _purpose._

Both of Imogen’s parents were avid supporters of equality – they’d even met campaigning for civil rights in the fifties, when they were just seventeen – and had always encouraged her and her sister to fight against all forms of discrimination and injustices in society.

_Construct your own exit._

She’d always dreamed of becoming a great fighter for civil rights, someone like Germaine Greer or Rosa Parks, a speaker like MLK Junior, someone who could bring thousands to their feet with the force of their passions. She knew, of course, that probably wouldn’t happen.

She was a sixteen-year-old girl who, although was good in a pickle, didn’t have the gift of leadership that James or Remus or even _Sirius_ was gifted with. People didn’t respect her like they respected Lily or fear her like they did Marlene McKinnon.

She was that short friend of the Marauders, the half-blood.

Imogen grit her teeth at that last thought. Who bloody _cared_ if she was half-blood? Who bloody _gave a flying fuck_ about blood status? She certainly didn’t, and it wasn’t _fair._ All that discrimination was just not _fair._ It made her blood boil.

She wanted to fight. Against the Death Eaters, and their crazy dictator of a leader. She wanted to do everything in her power to stop them. In that moment, she would have given her _life._ She wasn’t sure if it was the sense of glory brought to her by Dumbledore’s inspiring words, or the swelling of Gryffindor pride in her chest, but she was sure: she would die for the cause, if she had to. The friction between what _was_ and what _should be_ revved her up, drove her gaze forward and her spine straight.

And, right there and then, her eyes met Sirius’ across the table.

He looked exactly as she did: frustrated, angry, helpless.

She knew, right then, that he was thinking the same things she was.

“That is all.” Dumbledore finished, before clasping his hands together again. “Off to bed now, lickety split.”

As they stood, Sirius’ eyes were still on hers. The molten grey of them seemed to pulsate with intensity, turning to mercury right in front of her. He knew what she was thinking.

Imogen swallowed, and looked away, breaking whatever weird connection was going on. This wasn’t her and Sirius’ _area,_ not at all – they were of a somewhat shallow friendship, never going deeper.

It was all teasing and jokes, outside their letters. Neither of them was entirely comfortable with anything other than that, and it was _fine._

And that was how it was going to stay.


	2. Into My Own Arse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first day of classes commences with enough drama to grease the wheels of the Hogwarts rumour mill - from heartthrob professors to purebloods out of place, the castle is buzzing.
> 
> Imogen's just trying to get through the school year under the shadow of impending war; but it doesn't look like things are going to be that simple.

“WATERS!”

Imogen stopped in her tracks, turning quickly to face whoever was calling her.

Gus ran towards her, his face red and chest heaving. He was not the most athletic of chaps, being more suited to loping around the castle at a slow, easy pace. However, his breathing could have been restricted by the apple in his mouth. “Merlin,” he panted, taking the fruit from his lips, once he reached her. “What’s got _your_ lacy black knickers in such a knot?”

“Nothing,” she retorted, ignoring the comment about her knickers, “I’m just excited for classes, is all.”

She turned and started walking again at a brisk pace, stuffing her timetable into her bag before he could see it. She’d practically punched the air over breakfast when she’d realised what subject she had first, eliciting odd glances from the younger years and a “stop it you mad bird, I’m _tired_ ” from Remus.

“But,” Gus said, “you’re _never_ excited for classes on the first day.”

She shot him a grin, quickening her walk. “You must be mistaken, my good man, for I _love_ classes on the first day. I long for them all summer.”

He regarded her with intense suspicion, squinting and pulling a face. “Hang on!” he said brightly, after a moment. “What classes _exactly_ have you got now?”

“Potions.” Imogen blurted out, and this was her first mistake.

“WRONG,” Gus sang, having regained his energy, “YOU _HATE_ POTIONS.”

He waved a finger in front of her face before she batted it away. She tucked a strand of curly hair that had _already_ fallen out, much to her irritation. “No, _James_ hates Potions. I _love_ Potions. Wonderful subject, it is, with all its stirring and…" she motioned with her hand, twirling the index finger, "stirring.”

“No no,” Gus exclaimed, “I remember _very clearly_ you telling me that you hated Potions with… what was it? Oh yeah, _the force of a thousand suns._ ”

Imogen grumbled something to herself that sounded like she was cursing his good memory.

“In fact,” he went on, “since you’re never _this_ excited for your other classes, and the arrival of that new bloke has got your loins all hot and bothered –”

“ _Ew,_ King, that’s –”

“ – _I’d_ say you’ve got Muggle Studies!” he finished, grinning at her smugly.

She rolled her eyes (they had recuperated since the previous night), and relented. “Yeah, I’ve got Muggle Studies first thing.” She muttered, elbowing him in the ribs when he erupted in a fountain of _I told you so_ s.

“Ow, _Merlin_ ,” Gus whined, rubbing his side.

“Sorry, my arm slipped.” Imogen grinned, as she came to a halt outside her designated classroom. “See you in Defence, yeah?”

“WHATEVS.” Gus yelled, striding away from her. “I DON’T CARE.”

She laughed and opened the door, slipping into the Muggle Studies class just as other students were beginning to walk down the halls. She was early, of course, and as she entered Professor Cumberstone looked up from his desk.

Oh, Merlin, he was even more gorgeous up close.

“Hello,” he said quietly, his voice a smooth baritone.

“Morning.” She said back, and thankfully her voice didn’t falter or shake or anything else ridiculously stereotypical of a teenage girl. Why _was_ that a stereotype? She didn’t know any teenage girls who did that. Aaaand her mind was wandering.

He was looking at her, still, lovely green eyes ( _sigh_ ) twinkling. _Make conversation!_ A voice said, and she hurriedly cleared her throat. “Excited to start?”

She looked round the room. It hadn’t changed much since the previous year; it still contained only sixteen desks, four rows of two on each side, and the walls were still plastered with Muggle movie posters. They were unmoving, of course, which had been a great source of bafflement to many Hogwarts students, whom were unused to the subjects of photographs remaining where they were supposed to. It had been a great day for Imogen, walking in to see the Marauders (minus Remus, of course) attempting to sweet-talk the images into moving. Lots of _please, darling_ s from James and even a famously smouldering Sirius Black wink, but to no avail.

“Oh,” he chuckled, and rubbed his jaw nervously, “I _was,_ and then Albus – oh, sorry –Professor Dumbledore made that speech…”

“A tad dismal, wasn’t it?”

He laughed. “Just a bit.”

“I think you’ll be fine, sir. You’re doing something good, after all. Knowing the box before you step outside it, and all that.” She smiled at him reassuringly, masking the fact that her palms were sweating and hot _damn_ was he a beautiful specimen.

Cumberstone let a slightly more content smile grace his features. “Yes, thank you… that’s quite helpful, actually. Er, what was your name?”

Imogen smiled. “Imogen, sir. Imogen Waters.”

“Ah, yes, I’ve heard of you.” he said easily, sliding his hands in his pockets.

She started. “Me?” She asked, bewildered, trying to keep her gaze level with his and _not_ drop down to the rather tight pants he wore.

He nodded. “I was chatting with Professor Slughorn, earlier. He seems quite taken by your skills with hexes.”

“I, ah, might have gotten a few Slytherins with some Nostril-Stickers.” She said, then immediately shut her mouth. What was she doing, telling a _teacher_ about this? And _damn Slughorn,_ she thought, for bloody choosing _that moment_ in fifth year to walk out of his classroom, just as she was hexing Mulciber and Avery for calling her a blood traitor.

To his credit, he only laughed, short and sharp – then clamped one hand over his mouth. “Merlin, shouldn’t find that so funny.” He said sheepishly. “But yeah, you’ve gotten yourself a bit of a reputation for your wand-work, Miss Waters.”

“I hope that wasn’t an innuendo,” Sirius Black said breezily as he strode in through the door. “Because _that_ would be inappropriate.”

Imogen started. Sirius took _Muggle Studies?_

He grinned as he came to a stop beside her, dropping a roguish eyebrow-waggle, as was his custom. He already looked like he'd spent an hour inside a broom closet; his hair ruffled, tie loosened, lips red. She tried not to break out into hives; being in the same room as _two_ impossibly good-looking souls, and having one of them be his usual flirtatious self, was proving too much for her loins. They _burned._

Cumberstone sputtered adorably, turning bright red. Merlin, even _that_ suited him. He opened and closed his mouth, seemingly grasping for words, before settling on. “N-no, I was merely telling Miss Waters here that her _spell_ -work is seen as admirable.”

“Ah.” Sirius said, waltzing to one of the desks. “Of course, sir.” He settled down at it, dumping his bag on the ground next to him. He leaned back in the chair, interlaced his fingers and placed them behind his head. He surveyed them both with a lazy smirk.

He managed to make the _of course_ sound like a mockery, and Imogen registered the faint desire to curse his balls off, amidst the appreciation for his biceps.

  _Calm thyself, heathen,_ she hissed mentally. Where was this coming from? Why now?

“Water’s pretty good in a duel.” He said, which was a complete lie.

Well, in the sense that he’d never even _seen_ her duel. She was actually rather proud of her skills in Defence.

Cumberstone cleared his throat, clearly at unease.

“Ah, thank you, sir, but I’m afraid _Black_ here is… flattering me.” She said, and he smiled again.

“And I’m afraid you’re being too modest, but it doesn’t matter. I’m sure it won’t come up much in Muggle Studies.” He flashed a charming grin, standing up from his desk to straighten one of the posters.

“Probably not.”

Imogen plopped her things on the desk next to Sirius (at the very back, she regretted), effectively ending her conversation with the new professor. “I hate you,” she hissed at him.

Sirius only gave her a smug grin in return. “Hello to you _too_ , Waters.”

"Mind telling me what exactly you're playing at?"

He shrugged. "Can't I compliment a mate?" he asked, and she didn't like the way he pronounced the word _mate,_ like it was something pointed.

"Don't play innocent, Black. You're acting weird."

He gave a shark's smile, dead-eyed and brewing with the beginnings of what was likely one of his tempers. She recognised the signs; bitter, mocking. "And _you're_ being a nosey bint. Mind buggering off?"

She was about to give a sharp retort when the rest of the class filed in, chatting loudly and laughing.

Among them was Mary MacDonald and Alice Prewett, fellow Gryffindor girls. They saw her and waved, making their way over.

“Hiya,” Alice greeted them brightly, “didn’t get a chance to chat with you last night. Y’alright?”

“Yeah, I’m good. Nice summer with Frank?” Imogen asked, just as bright despite the strong sense of unease she felt at the back of her tongue. It tasted metallic, like blood.

Alice blushed at the mention of her new boyfriend, grinning widely. “ _Very_ nice.”

“How’re you, Black?” Mary asked Sirius politely, as she sat down at the desk in front of him. She smiled prettily, something which would usually garner a wink.

He shrugged, saying nothing, then turned his head away to gaze out the window.

Imogen grimaced apologetically at Mary, who looked confused. She was about to ask Mary about her holidays, considering Sirius was in one of his stroppy moods, but Cumberstone was beginning the class – and all female attention was on him.

In fact, the majority of the class _was_ female; only Sirius and a bored-looking boy who Imogen, oddly, didn’t recognise made up the male population. Merlin, _he_ was bloody beautiful as well; all dark-haired, flawless-skinned and _pretty._ His long lashes were coal-black against the sharp of his cheekbone, his mouth scathing but oh-so tempting.

Imogen shifted.

“Morning, everyone,” the professor began, reaching up to run his fingers through his (gorgeous) hair, “you’ve all had a good holidays, I hope?”

A murmur of unenthusiastic affirmations greeted him, Imogen herself included. She ignored the eye-roll Sirius gave her.

“Well. That was… honest, I’ll give you that.” A few laughs. He looked pleased. “As Professor Dumbledore mentioned in his somewhat _disturbing_ speech last night,” more laughing ensued as the class warmed to their new professor, “I’m planning on taking a new approach to teaching Muggle Studies. Instead of just learning about these wonderfully imaginative people, we’ll be partaking in some of the activities that they do on a daily basis.”

“Like what?” Imogen found herself asking, and Cumberstone beamed at her.

 _Oh, Merlin,_ she thought as her cheeks burned.

“Good question, Miss Waters.” Gloria Sawyer, Ravenclaw sixth-year and Class A _bitch_ sent Imogen a dark glare from across the room when Cumberstone smiled warmly at her. “I thought all of you could decide that for yourselves. Some inspiration, however, might be the upcoming Halloween ball. A few Muggle dances would be refreshing, don’t you think?”

“Brilliant idea, sir,” Mary said, “I can owl my mum – she knows a couple.”

“Thank you, Miss…?”

“MacDonald.” Mary practically sighed.

“Ah, thank you, Miss MacDonald.”

“We have to learn _Muggle_ dancing?” Spat the moody-looking boy. “That’s – that’s just –”

“Just what, Mister Selwyn?” Cumberstone asked politely, and Imogen felt Sirius tense.

Selwyn was a Slytherin name. A _Pureblood_ Slytherin name. This boy had to be Marcus Selwyn, the eldest of the brood and heir the vast fortune left to him by his parents. What in the name of Merlin’s beard was he doing in _Muggle Studies?_

Marcus met the professor’s gaze, contempt written all over his aristocratic features. He touched his tongue to his top lip, as if in thought. He dripped the same sort of confidence that Sirius did – the sort that came with _knowing_ you were good looking – lounging in his chair with his arms folded over his chest, glossy dark hair combed back and eyebrows drawn in a permanent frown. “Disgusting.” He said, after a moment’s pause. “It’s just… disgusting.”

Sirius’ fists clenched, and Imogen wished she could pat him on the shoulder to calm him down, but as soon as the words were out of Marcus’ mouth her fingers had jumped to her wand and her temper was flaring. Hexes flew through her mind: Bat Bogey, Nostril Sticker, _petrificus totalus…_ She bit her tongue. A classroom wasn’t the place to do this. Sirius seemed to be thinking along the same lines; his hand twitched towards the pocket of his robes, then back to the desk. She went to grab it, but some unspoken rule stopped her - there wasn't really _touching_ between them. That wasn't their thing. So she resisted the urge, picking up her quill instead.

The rest of her peers looked shocked. Not so much by the Selwyn heir’s discriminative attitude, that was no new thing, but by the fact he was sitting in their classroom. Most of them were only just noticing his presence, their brows knitting together and mouths down-turning in frowns. Had he been forced? Was it some kind of punishment? It _had_ to be.

“Well,” Cumberstone replied cheerily, “you’ll just have to deal with that, won’t you?”

Marcus’ mouth tightened, but he wasn’t stupid enough to cross any more lines.

“Alright! Let’s get started, shall we?” Cumberstone clasped his hands together, and waved his wand. The movement caused a piece of blue chalk to zoom over from the cupboard at the back of the room and begin writing on the board at the front.

 _POLITICS – NON-MAGIC_ , it scrawled in an elegant script, and Imogen scrambled to unscrew her inkpot, eagerly scribbling down the title.

“Excited, are we?” Sirius drawled.

She ignored him.

“Can anyone tell me anything important that’s going on in the Muggle world right now, politically?”

Nobody said anything. Imogen realised that she was probably the only student in the class with Muggle parentage. She thrust her hand into the air.

Cumberstone gave her a wry grin. Alice shot her an eyebrow wiggle over her shoulder. Sirius sighed, which she ignored. “Yes, Miss Waters?”

“Margaret Thatcher is Prime Minister, sir. And there’s high inflation.” She recalled, confidently.

“Excellent work, Miss Waters. Although high inflation _is_ important, we should touch on the fact that Ms Thatcher is quite revolutionary. Can anyone tell me why?”

Again, nobody answered.

“ _Excellent work, Miss Waters, O favourite student…_ ” Sirius mimicked in her ear.

Again, she ignored him.

Cumberstone frowned, tucking his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. A collective sigh could be heard from the majority of the class, save the two boys, in admiration. “Miss Waters?” he asked, sheepishly.

“First female Prime Minister.” Marcus blurted, before Imogen could even open her mouth. He seemed as shocked as the rest of the class, clamping his lips shut, then opening them again, rather like a fish.

Cumberstone smiled widely at him. “Good job, Mister Selwyn. Your guardian taught you that, did she?”

The boy pursed his lips. “She was a suffragette.” He muttered quickly, crossing his arms. “Fought for Muggle women’s rights.”

“That’s quite admirable, no?”

“If they weren’t bloody _Muggles._ ”

 

*.*

 

“That _bastard,_ ” Sirius raged, as they made their way to Transfiguration, “can you believe the little shit? The fucking _nerve._ ”

“Hey, you weren’t exactly Mister Do-Gooder towards Cumberstone either.” Imogen reminded him, struggling to match his long strides. Damned short legs.

He cast her a sidelong glance. “What?”

“You weren’t all that _nice,_ where you?” she asked, impatiently. To be honest, she was sick of Sirius’ bad attitude, having had to struggle through an hour of it.

All he’d done throughout the _entire_ class was make snide remarks, often aimed at her friendly manner towards Cumberstone, and try to look as bored and cynical as possible. There had been a fair few innuendos, too, which only served to incense her further. Imogen wasn’t the most intelligent when it came to academics, nor was she the hardest worker of them all, but suggesting that she’d sleep with a teacher – even if it _was_ as a joke – just wasn’t funny.

When Imogen had suggested they do their homework together to make things simpler, he’d only rolled his eyes and said “ _great_ ” as sarcastically as the laws of physics would allow - not that he knew much about those. For Merlin’s sake, she’d only been suggesting a way to make the two foot of parchment they had to write on Muggle politics due on Wednesday _easier -_ he didn't have to be such a raging dick about it.

“As opposed to you?” he asked, his tone scathing. “Merlin, Waters, you were about ready to get on your knees –”

“ _Hey!_ ” she cried, sharply. “Don’t you _bloody_ talk like that to me, _Black_ , or I’ll hex you into your own _arse_!”

He rounded on her, his face angry. “Oh?” He asked, invading her personal space until she’d backed herself into a wall. With nowhere left to go, her chest was pressed to his, and he loomed over her, his expression dark. He was close, closer than she was comfortable. Which wasn't to say she hadn't been _this close_ to a boy before - no, Imogen Waters was well-acquainted with the many virtues of broom closets by this point - but not to Sirius. Most of the time, he maintained a friendly distance.

His eyes searched hers, their grey depths brimming with irritation that was barely in check. His thighs leaned against hers, and she spared a quick thought to all the people who were passing by, staring at them curiously.

“Yes, _oh!_ What’s gotten _into_ you today? You’re being an absolute _dick_ , Sirius! Suggesting I’d sleep with a bloody teacher for marks!" she hissed, glancing nervously over his shoulder.

“Nothing’s gotten _into_ me, Waters,” he shot back, his nose inches from hers, sneering, “it’s that Selwyn bloke that’s the problem. _He’s_ the one with something against Muggles!”

Imogen refused to let herself shrink back into the wall. Instead, she thrust out her chin and gave him _the look_ , as high a voltage as she could muster, ignoring how his hands were planted either side of her head. “He’s also a Pureblood Slytherin. I’d be surprised if he _wasn’t_ an arsehole! And that has _nothing_ to do with you making those awful comments.”

“Well –” he stopped, looked at her more closely. “ _Into_ my own arse?” He took one hand off the wall, reducing the tension between them by a mile.

She blew out a gusty sigh. “No. I don’t know how to do that. Wish I did, though.”

Sirius cracked a smile for the first time that morning, tugging at his already-loosened tie. “Yeah, I thought not.”

She rolled her eyes and made to slip past him, but he caught her elbow and pulled her back. She looked up at him, leaning against the wall once more, as he fumbled for words. “Um,” he said quietly, “sorry. That was… uncalled for.”

She might have refused him, had she not been so loathe to keep grudges, and had he not turned his puppy-dog eyes onto her. He was terribly good at those. She gritted her teeth, but then he _tilted_ his bloody _head_ and peered at her with a wide, innocent gaze - and she couldn't keep it up.

“Doesn’t matter.” Imogen gave in, shaking her head. “Sorry for threatening to hex you into your own arse.”

Sirius gave one of his signature bark-like laughs, letting go of her elbow. His fingers trailed down her forearm. “Doesn’t matter.” He threw her words back at her. His touch lingered at her wrist, and for a moment she thought he might take her hand, but he drew quickly away and flicked her nose instead.

Imogen punched his shoulder.

“What _is_ up with you, anyway? And don’t say _nothing,_ either,” she said softly, as they made their way to their next classroom, “because I know that’s utter crap.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just… Dumbledore’s speech. Made me… frustrated.”

Imogen gave a short laugh. “I know what you mean. I felt really bloody helpless.”

“I – last summer…” he faltered, pressing his lips together. He hesitated mid-step, combing long fingers through his hair.

“Yeah?” she prompted.

“I saw – I saw Death Eaters attack a village. When I was out, on my own. I saw what they did and I didn't…” Sirius paused, tugging at his tie again as if it was strangling him, “I want to fight.”

"Me too," Imogen said quietly.

He looked at her in surprise. "Why?" he asked, then looked furious with himself. "I mean - I know why. I'm not questioning your morals, or any - er."

She furrowed her brow at his fumbling. Sirius wasn't really the type to grasp for words, being known about the castle for his slick wit and slick nature; so it was odd, to say the least, seeing him like this. She waited.

Sirius sucked in a breath, pressed his lips together again. He spoke. "When did you decide?"

Oh. "Summer of fourth year. After - " she cut herself off with a choked sound, marvelling at the fact that - even though it had been two years - the mere mention of _fourth year_ could make her throat clog up like that.

"After what?" he asked, sharply, noting her distress.

They stopped at their Transfiguration classroom.

"Nothing.” Imogen said quickly, but before he could reply she went inside, apologising to McGonagall for being late.

She barely focused on the assigned task for that afternoon - switching a butterfly into a bee, then back again - thoughts of Sirius pressing her back into that wall causing all powers of concentration to momentarily flee from her head. She lingered on the image of his eyes, their silvery depths stormy and intense, the touch of his hand on her forearm. The sound of his voice, as he told her, hushedly, his urge to fight. She wondered if he, like her, had been suddenly struck with the overwhelming impulse; like an epiphany, perhaps - had he stood in the aftermath of that Death Eater attack on a Muggle town, feeling as if he was being called to arms?

She remembered waking in a tangle of sheets, throat raw from screaming, with the only warmth in sight the prospect of joining the cause. Of having _purpose._ Was that what Sirius felt, too?

With a jolt that made her knee jump and slam into her desk, she realised she'd found something of a comrade.

 

*.*

 

Imogen sat as close to the crackling fire as she could manage without burning herself, curling into the squashy armchair as she squinted at the Charms textbook she held open on her lap.

She sat with her legs over one of the armrests, her back braced against the other and her feet dangling mid-air. A blanket stolen from her bed in the dormitory upstairs was wrapped around her small shoulders; her feet encased in fluffy purple socks, a steaming mug of tea in one hand and her quill in the other, where she made idle notes in the margins of her book. It was only the first night back officially learning, after all; no need to be prompt in her studying habits.

In fact, she wouldn't be studying _at all_ if it weren't for the sixth year paranoia that somehow managed to plague all her friends - except for the Marauders, of course, but Gus and Lily had gotten to her first, practically kidnapping her and forcing a textbook into her unwilling hands. Thus, here she sat, begrudgingly quite enjoying herself, doing a spot of Charm's. She stared at page sixty-two, re-reading paragraph eight for the third time.

_The Arcturius Charm, which allows its wielder to make any article of paper or document completely blank, and its counter-charm, was discovered by…_

“Diggory Arcturius,” Imogen said aloud, summarising the sentence to be later made into notes.

Gus, who was curled up on the floor directly behind her, reached round and tickled her foot in a congratulatory manner. “Nice,” he murmured, voice muffled as if he had a quill in his mouth.

“Cheers.” She replied.

Imogen was by no means the most intelligent of students - that was why she was Gryffindor, and not Ravenclaw - and saying that she suffered from _lapses in concentration_ would be no stretch of the imagination, but that didn't mean she never enjoyed a good charm. Or any nice bit of magic, actually. She _was_ halfblood, and the wizarding world still held a sense of childish glee for her that had long since erased itself from her pureblood peers. That meant she got a bit over-excited when it came to spells she liked.

It was a useful charm, actually. _Make any article of paper or document completely blank…_ it would be great for keeping particular documents safe… or for revealing others.

_Arcturi deper, Arcturi revelio._

She wrote it down several times on a scrap of parchment, then tucked it into her robes.

It had become something of a habit, over the past few years, taking down spells she thought useful. She wanted to prepare for the dark times that were coming. The man who called himself Lord Voldemort and his followers was on the rise, and it wasn’t as if he would wait until his opponents were out of school. She needed to be ready. She needed to protect her family and the hundreds of innocent people that would suffer –

Imogen turned the page, pushing the thought from her mind.

Lily was perched in the chair next to her, practising turning a porcupine into a pocket watch, but to no avail. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t make the terrified animal do anything more than emit a faint _ticking_ noise. She took turns in between scrutinizing her own textbook, thick red hair hanging over one shoulder, and screeching in frustration.

It was eight o’clock, so her crazed shrieks were not received well by those who weren’t still at tea.

She consulted the textbook. “ _Porcupis lemange!_ ” she ordered, flicking her wand.

The porcupine quivered, but it was in fear rather than magic.

“ _Ugh_!” She growled, and prodded it.

“Bloody hell, Evans!” Gus finally cracked, after one too many eardrums were burst, “Just ask someone for help!”

Lily whipped round to face him, peering obscenely over the back of her chair. Her eyes were wild, her mane of hair even more so. “Ask?” she demanded. “ _Ask?_ ”

“Yep.” Gus replied, popping the ‘p’. He was probably the only person in the entire school, professors included, who wasn’t the least bit intimidated by Lily Evans.

“Who on _earth_ could I ask for help?”

With anyone else, this would have been a bit conceited. But that was Lily; she believed she was the best at most things (academically, anyway), and it was mostly true. So, really, she had every reason to believe there was nobody who could help her.

But, anyway, Transfiguration seemed to escape Lily. Completely. At least, sixth-year Transfiguration did.

“I hear Potter’s pretty good at it.” Gus declared innocently.

“ _Potter?_ ” she spat, perhaps a tad too loudly.

Then, realising her mistake, she tried to make herself as invisible as possible- but it was too late.

“YES EVANS?” James thundered, leaping from his chair across the Common Room into a standing position.

“Oh, Merlin,” Lily groaned and covered her eyes with her hands.

Imogen fought the urge to laugh as he sauntered towards them, running his hands through his hair. He had shucked his robes hours previously, favouring the more casual attire of regular school uniform, his tie loose around his neck and shirt unbuttoned at the throat. He shot a nearby group of second-years a lazy grin, and they tittered. The same could not be said of Lily, who merely made a somewhat feral noise in the back of her throat.

“I do believe,” he practically sang, prancing over to kneel before his ‘lady love’, “that you need my assistance with something?”

“ _No,_ Potter,” Lily retorted, although somewhat muffled through her fingers, “I don’t.”

“Oh, but I think you _do,_ Evans!” James trilled, reaching out to attempt to pry Lily’s hands from her face.

“No.”

He was losing the fight. Lily’s fingers were firmly attached to her head.

“Yes!” He gritted out, tense with the strain.

“NO.”

“Yeeeeeeeeeees!” James cajoled, as if lengthening the syllable would convince her any further, if she was convinced at all.

“ _NOOOOO._ ” She shot back, her voice mangled and almost hysterical with rage. Lily’s face – or what Imogen could see of it – was now almost as red as her hair.

“But, Evans-”

“BUT NOTHING POTTER YOU ABSOLUTE _DOLT –_ ”

“Stop manhandling the poor girl, James!” Imogen chastised, assisting Lily by charming a pillow to beat her attacker over the head.

“Oi – stop it – _Gen!_ ” James cried, releasing her and falling backwards, where the pillow renewed its attack by targeting his chest and abdomen.

Lily immediately took her hands from her face and gathered her things, sprinting upstairs before James could protest.

Imogen – who was having _far_ too much fun at this stage – had long since set down her tea and forgotten her homework, choosing instead to stand on her chair and charm various objects around the room to gently bump into her friend’s body.

It wasn’t enough to harm, obviously, but it was brilliant for distracting someone greatly.

“THE LADY SAID NO, POTTER.” She bellowed, the rising amusement of the Gryffindor Common Room.

Gus was lying on his back, snorting with laughter, while Sirius, Peter and Remus had crowded round James and were trying to subdue the objects. Marlene McKinnon was giving her the thumbs up from her corner shared with Mary MacDonald, who was watching worriedly.

“MERLIN IMOGEN STOP!” James cried, as his glasses were nudged off his nose by three quills, his eyes wide and limbs flailing. They dangled from the end of his lip comically, before falling into his lap. He tumbled backwards, as if this was the last straw, moaning.

After a few seconds more, and with a flick of her wand, Imogen sent the charmed objects back to their original places, where they settled with a faint rattle. One by one, the students turned back to what they had been doing before. Large displays of magic and ruckus was hardly rare, not with the sixth-years. They were a rowdy lot, to be honest.

The Marauders, plus Gus, regarded her with a faint sense of horror, now that the hysteria had died down. And, once they realised that the entire thing had been done non-verbally.

“Well,” Sirius said, “you weren’t kidding about that wand-work, were you?”

“I’ve been practising.” Imogen replied loftily. “All last year.”

“ _What for?_ ” James asked, inspecting himself for what she presumed would be bruises. Which was ridiculous – the only harsh element of her spell had been the pillow, and that was an oxymoron in itself.

“Nothing, really. Just practising.”

“Well – well _practise_ on someone else, you mad bird!” James shrieked, flapping his hands. “That was _mortifying!_ ”

“What d’you mean?” she demanded, glaring at him. “Is it because I’m a _woman_?”

“Huh?” he asked, frowning.

“I _said,_ is it because of my vagina? Hm?”

“Wha –”

“BECAUSE IF IT IS –”

“No! Merlin, no!” James reassured her.

She took a breath. “Sorry. Just a bit sensitive about that.”

“Understandable.” Peter said. “It’s a wizard’s world.”

The others looked at him, brows creased.

“What?” he demanded. “It is!”

James shook his head. “It’s not because of your… lady bits. It’s because you’re about three feet tall.”

“Oi!” she said, as the other four cracked up. “I am not!”

“You are a bit.” Remus said fondly, reaching over and ruffling her hair.

She moodily patted down her curls, lest they spring up with a vengeance. “Shut up.”

“You are actually _dead_ little,” Gus cooed. “Look at you, you’re standing on a chair and I’m still about a foot taller.”

“That’s because _you’re_ freakishly tall. And size does not in any way infer power!”

“No,” Sirius agreed, “but it does help.”

“Argh!” Imogen threw up her hands and collapsed back into her seat, sulking vigorously.

She crossed her arms and stared at the fire, pouting. The flames crackled merrily in a highly mocking manner. “Bloody fire.” She muttered. “Bloody _boys._ ”

Imogen nodded to herself. They would apologise later, and then _she_ would apologise for setting the pillow on James. But _they_ would apologise first. Yes. Good. Her logic was infallible. She resisted the urge to cackle. That would not be becoming.

More silence. She picked up her tea, and upon realising it had gone cold, charmed it hot again, then wriggled back into her blanket.

She harrumphed, finding satisfaction in the knowledge that she, technically, was in the right.

“Waters.” Sirius was standing next to her chair, looking down at her with an amused expression. “Waters.”

She burrowed further back into the chair. She heard him sigh, shift from side to side.

“Are you _sulking_?” Gus asked.

“She is.” Remus affirmed, peering at her from around the chair.

“Look at her, she’s pouting. Her titchy lip is wobbling.”

“Yeah, she looks like Prongs after Evans calls him a toerag.” Sirius snorted.

“Oi!”

“Huh, so she does.”

“That cup of tea’s bigger than she is.” Peter noted, rather unhelpfully.

 _Calm,_ Imogen thought. _Calm._

“C’mon, Waters, we’re sorry.”

“Yeah, we’re very sorry that you’re chucking a wobbler.”

_Calm. Not a bloody wobbler. Calm._

“Shut up, King –”

“ _You_ shut up, Lupin –”

Sirius shushed them both, then knelt down in front of her. “Waters,” he coaxed, giving a charismatic smile, one he knew perfectly well had managed to charm the tartan knickers off of McGonagall. Underhanded tactic. “Please, forgive us?”

_Ca – oh, fuck it._

She broke. “I bloody have to, don’t I?” she snapped ignoring James and Gus’ loud _waheeeeys_.

Sirius huffed out a small laugh, flashing straight white teeth. She noted that a five o’clock shadow was breaking out across his jawline – and a very strong jawline it was, too. Too bloody handsome, that boy. “Yep.”

“You wouldn’t know what to do without me.”

“Of _course_ not, Waters.”

“I thought so.”

Remus, James, Peter and Gus were still whooping enthusiastically and leaping round the room, much to the disdain of various seventh-years who were trying to study, when Sirius leaned forward even closer.

“It wasn’t just practise, was it?” he asked, his tone grim.

Imogen thought back to the summer of fourth year, and the moment that she’d sworn to do all she could to protect her family. She thought back to the countless night spent scribbling down spells she saw as useful – defence spells, curses and hexes that could maim and hurt and _kill –_ she thought back to the nights spent in her dormitory with Marlene, practising and practising until she could perform them in her sleep.

She bit her lip. “No,” she whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read and review!


	3. Familia In Aeternum, Quod Pueri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marlene and Imogen get a chance to practise their spellwork - but not without an interruption from a certain disgraced Pureblood.

Lily was sitting upright in bed, brushing out her luxuriant red locks when Imogen finally clambered up to their dormitory at about eleven o’clock.

“You were out late,” she commented.

Imogen shrugged. “Everyone stays up on the first night. By all accounts, dearest, I’m early.” She gestured around the empty beds for emphasis. The only other inhabitant, besides Lily, was Gengy. The kitten was snoozing contentedly on Imogen’s pillow, probably tired from a long day of being adorable.

Alice was out, presumably, with Frank, Marlene was off snogging a fifth-year Ravenclaw she’d had her eye on at lunch, and Mary was still downstairs, reading.

“Don’t lie to me,” Lily accused, “I know who you’ve been with!”

She grinned. “It’s not what it looks like, baby.”

“You were with _another friend,_ weren’t you?”

Imogen had actually been reading another trashy romance novel _(Winsome Werewolves,_ this time) _,_ but she played along. “I swear, I was thinking about you the whole time!”

Lily gasped in mock horror, clasping a small hand to her chest. “I can’t even look at you.”

Imogen snorted and sat on the edge of her friend’s bed. “Move over, bumhole.”

“Rightio, you lazy cow.” Lily curled her feet underneath her and patted the space by her pillow.

“Missed you.” Imogen sighed, snuggling under the duvet. She smiled fondly; this reminded her of first year, when they'd both been so little that they could fit easily in one bed, and they used to have weekend-long sleepovers, whispering until they could barely keep their eyes open.

The two had been friends, as she and Gus had, since the train journey. Both being of muggle descent, even if Imogen had a witch mother, their parents had gravitated towards each other at the station. They'd been introduced, Lily accepting her outstretched hand shyly, returning her grin with only a little hesitation, and been friends ever since.

“Missed you too, darling Immy. How are you, by the way?” She asked, giving Imogen a concerned look. “I mean, after –”

“I’m fine.” Imogen interrupted. “Really, Lils. I don’t want to talk about… that.”

Lily didn’t look convinced, but she smiled kindly, patting her hand and returning to her hair. “Cheers for saving me, by the way.”

“No problem. Just one question, though,” Imogen said innocently, “because I found it very odd that you needed my assistance in the first place.”

Lily’s hand froze, mid-brush. “Oh?” she asked, tremulously.

“I mean, _usually_ , you’d just hex him.” Imogen mused. “But not today.”

Lily cleared her throat. “I would’ve,” she assured, “but, I’m. Well. I’m a Prefect, aren’t I?”

“You were a Prefect last year, too, Lils.”

“And my rebellious days are over. I’m retired.”

Imogen snorted amusedly, closing her eyes. “You? Rebellious? _Please._ ”

“Excuse me! I’ll have you know I am _very_ rebellious.”

“Example.”

“Well – well. I, ah, well.”

“Well.”

“Shut up! I’m thinking.”

“Don’t strain yourself.”

“You’re an absolute _bint,_ you – oh! _Ha!_ ”

Imogen cracked open one eye. “Wracked your poor brains enough?”

“Oi.”

“Sorry. Do continue, dearest.”

Lily cleared her throat importantly. “Remember, last year, when I got us all that firewhiskey and chocolate from the kitchens? When Marlene got dumped by that Davies bloke?”

“Ooh, he was fit, wasn’t he?”

“She was in a right state.”

“Mm.”

“But _see?_ That’s rebellious.”

“Alright,” Imogen rolled onto her back and held up a finger, “ _one,_ it was butterbeer, not firewhiskey. Still got wankered, you lightweight –”

“ – it was my first time drinking –”

“And _two_ ,” she continued pointedly, holding up another finger, “I went along, and you barely managed to stop shaking enough to carry the chocolate!”

“The important thing to remember, Immy, is that I tried. And therefore, you should not criticise me.”

“What are you two oddballs on about?” Marlene grumbled, practically tumbling into the dormitory. Her hair was mussed, blonde clumps sticking up all over the place, her lips swollen and clothes rumpled. She seemed somewhat dazed.

“Wooooo,” Imogen said, impressed. “ _Someone’s_ been having an awful lot of fun.”

Marlene rolled her eyes, recovering enough to manage a slight sashay before collapsing onto her bed. “That boy’s energetic, I’ll give you that.”

“Looks it.” Lily noted drily, setting her hairbrush down. “Sooo. Is he any good?”

The blonde wriggled out of her skirt and tugged off her tights before answering. “ _Very._ ” She purred, in her husky voice.

Imogen hooted. “You lucky cow! Look at you, it’s only the first day and you’ve _already_ managed to pull a bloke.”

“I certainly have.” Marlene magicked away her makeup, and began to pull on her pyjamas. “Impressive show in the Common Room, by the way. Simply marvellous.” She grinned wickedly.

“All that practising we did was worth it, eh?” Imogen winked.

Lily groaned. “Oh God, I’d forgotten about that. Not this year, _please,_ I’ve only just gotten used to sleeping without spells flying about the room!”

Marlene waved a well-manicured hand. “Darling, stop. We’ll practise during our free lessons, won’t we, Immy? We chucked Divination and I had it the same time as you.”

“Yeah, after lunch tomorrow, isn’t it?”

“Ooh,” Marlene sighed, taking off her jumper, “two hours of cursing things. Without any sarcasm whatsoever, it sounds absolutely _riveting._ ”

“Wa _hey_ ,” Imogen exclaimed at the sight of Marlene’s red-lace bra. “Are your tits bigger?”

The other girl shook her head cheerfully. “Not at all! It’s a push up.”

“Push ups don’t do _that._ ” Lily said in awe, tilting her head to get a better look.

“Well. A push up _and_ a tricky little spell my aunt taught me.”

“THERE’S A SPELL TO MAKE YOUR TITS BIGGER?”

“Merlin, _no!_ There’s a spell to push them _up,_ you daft dingbat.”

“Oh.”

“Teach us!” Imogen shrieked, clasping her own disappointingly small breasts.

“There has to be something to push _up,_ Immy.”

“Oi.”

“Not sorry.”

Imogen flicked Lily’s button nose, producing an irritated wail of pain from the red-head. Lily returned the flick by pinching her thigh. Hard.

“Ow!”

“Serves you right, titface.”

“ANYWAY.” Marlene interrupted their squabbling, and they fell silent. “There was something I wanted to ask _this_ one.” She pointed at Imogen.

“Me? What have I done?” she inquired.

“Gloria Sawyer was saying that you were flirting with Cumberstone.” Marlene reported, the finger unwavering.

“I was _not_ flirting, I answered a question!” Imogen countered hotly.

“Stupid cow.” Lily muttered, savagely. “What’s her problem?”

Marlene shrugged. “That’s enough to be flirting, in her most bitchy opinion. And that’s not what’s important.”

“What is it, then?”

“Well, we were all downstairs about an hour ago, up at the Astronomy Tower.”

“Marlene, that’s not _allowed –_ ”

“Ssh, Lils!”

“ _Thank_ you, darling.” Marlene rolled her eyes. “As I said, we- meaning me, my dear boy-toy, the Marauders, Gloria and a few of her bats- were in the Astronomy Tower, when Sawyer started harping on about you being _such a slaggy little cow –_ ”

“Merlin, I’ve never even _spoken_ to her!”

“ – and I stopped her and said, _define slaggy,_ so she got all confused and actually tried to define slaggy –”

“Which you _can’t_ ,” Imogen ranted, “because it’s a social construct developed by slave drivers who wanted to make sure the fourteen-year-old girls they raped weren’t off with any other men.”

“Exactly!” Marlene said, and they air-high-fived.

“Well? What happened next?” Lily urged.

“Oh, right. Anyway, I told her to shut her mouth, because that’s one of my best mates she was going on about – but she went on anyway, saying that you were about one step away from bending over for Cumberstone –”

“Oh, that’s _classy._ ”

“ – but here’s the real kicker: before I could shove her off the tower, _Black_ came to your rescue.”

Imogen paused for a moment in her fury. “So?” she asked. “He’s my friend.”

“Oh no,” Marlene said dramatically, “this wasn’t normal Marauder-style defence, with the lazy sort of _oi piss off, she’s my mate_!”

“What d’you mean?” she frowned, running her fingers through her untidy mane.

“He went a bit mad, actually. Threatened to hex, and I quote,” Marlene recalled, holding two fingers of each had up to display air-quotes, “ _her fake tits off_ , unquote, if he ever heard her spreading rumours about you ever again. No _my mates_ , mind, _you_. Specifically. Got his wand out and everything.”

“Huh.” Lily pondered, her brow creased in a pensive frown. “That’s a bit odd. Black doesn’t really get bothered by much, does he?”

That was true. Sirius Black was notoriously unbothered by many things, although earlier during the day had not been testament to that.

“Yeah, even James looked surprised. Well, after he told Gloria to sod off and stop banging on about his mates, that is.”

“Actually,” Imogen corrected, “this morning Black was in a right strop.”

“He had Muggle Studies with you, didn’t he?” Marlene asked, slyly.

“Yeah, and?”

“Maybe he was a bit jealous, too?”

“What? No!” Imogen laughed. “No, he was just pissed at Marcus Selwyn. He said some stupid stuff about Muggles in class.” She said, ignoring the reminder in the back of her head that told her Sirius had made a crack about her supposed ‘flirting’ with Cumberstone, too.

She’d deal with that, later.

The words had an immediate effect on her two dorm mates: shock. They stared at her with their mouths open, eyes wide.

“Marcus Selwyn?” Lily asked incredulously. “ _Marcus Selwyn_ was in Muggle Studies?”

“But he’s –” Marlene began, and Imogen cut her off.

“Pureblood, I know. Doesn’t make sense to me, either.”

“’S not like he’s doing it now that his parents can’t stop him, either,” Lily surmised, “you should’ve heard the supremacy crap he was spouting last year.”

“What d’you mean, parents can’t stop him?” Imogen queried.

“They died, over the summer. Dunno how. Left him a simply _gigantic_ fortune for when he turns eighteen… I wouldn’t mind edging my way in, if he wasn’t such a prat. Wonderfully good looking, though.” Marlene sighed, rolling onto her back. “Pity all the cute ones are elitist, inbred arseholes, isn’t it?”

Imogen snorted and considered what she had just said. Selwyn _was_ good-looking, as she'd noticed earlier; very regal, very _strong._ Yet, he always seemed to look as if he was attending someone’s funeral – perhaps it was tactless, to say that now – since all he ever seemed to wear was dark suits, with his hair always scraped back, expression severe. Regardless of school uniform, too – she wondered how he got away with that.

She hadn’t recognised him at first, but after his name had been spoken she’d spent the entire day recollecting various other times she’d seen him. It was just odd to see him in such a place as a Muggle Studies lesson, not surrounded by his Slytherin groupies.

The dark smudges under his eyes and the pallor of his skin hadn’t helped, either.

“He’s an orphan?” she asked, thinking back to his unexpected knowledge about Margaret Thatcher.

“Yeah.”

“He said his guardian was a suffragette, you know.” Imogen said, mentally smacking herself for not realising that _of course,_ he was an orphan – you didn’t just have guardians for the sake of it.

“They fought for women’s rights?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe they’re making him take it.”

“I suppose. I’m going to bed.” Imogen slid off Lily’s bed and traipsed back to her own bunk, charming her teeth clean and face devoid of makeup as she went, being far too knackered to do anything else. She’d been pyjama-clad before she’d gone downstairs to do homework, finding that being comfortable was paramount, and basically collapsed face-down on her bed. Gengy yowled in protest, before forgiving her about two seconds afterwards and making a nest in Imogen’s curls.

“Night, all.” Lily called, switching off her bedside light.

“Goodnight, darlings.” Marlene replied.

“Nuuurght.” Imogen groaned.

And thus marked the end of their first day back at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. As the dormitory was plunged into darkness, and the breathing of her fellow sixth-year Gryffindor girls evened out into sleep, Imogen frowned and thought about Sirius.

He’d been acting odd. Very odd. Odder than usual, considering he was a Marauder, and all because of that speech? That didn’t explain his defensiveness of her, though. Maybe he realised how much of a line he’d crossed and was determined to make up for it? Yet, she’d _said_ it was fine, and he knew that she wasn’t one to keep grudges. Or maybe, she thought, maybe he saw how upset she'd been. Maybe he wanted to help her.

Maybe he was just moody.

It couldn’t be his family, could it? Sirius had left them over the summer. He lived with the Potters, now.

Why was she so bothered, anyway? It was Sirius, they weren’t even that close.

 _Stop being daft,_ she told herself resolutely, and forced any thought of Sirius Black and his weird behaviour from her mind.

 

*.*

 

“You look awful.” Sammy commented, as Imogen plopped down into her seat.

She didn’t take offense. The Ravenclaw Prefect could be painfully blunt, but her sunny disposition and readiness with a friendly smile made it hard to be mad at her for any length of time.

“Didn’t get much sleep.” She replied, hoarsely. She'd caught a brief, terrifying glance of her reflection on the way to class - ashen skin, bags so big they were practically _suitcases_ under each of her eyes, three new spots on her cheek. No wonder Sammy looked worried.

Truth be told, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Sirius the previous night; she’d woken up after about half an hour of rest, and, immediately, begun thinking of him. And, of course, that had led to thinking about the impending war that loomed over their heads like thunderclouds.

Imogen had spent the rest of the night, and much of the morning until four o’clock, staring at the top of her four-poster bed, stroking Gengy’s fur absently, and pondering what was to come. Would they break out into full-on war, or would the ministry be able to stop it? Would _Dumbledore_ be able to stop it?

The ministry was absolutely rubbish, everyone knew that. They hadn’t even been able to stop the attacks on Muggles, and that was only the beginning. Death Eaters were being recruited left and right; even those who didn’t give two shits about Blood Purity were being terrorised and threatened until they joined. It seemed as if every new day brought new names to be added to the lists of the dead.

Only that morning, over breakfast, Remus had pointed out an article in the Daily Prophet which reported the death of the Montgomerys – a wealthy and influential family that had made it known they would not support Voldemort in his quest for the ‘Pure Race’.

All of them had been found, dead, in their house: Mr and Mrs Montgomery, their three daughters, and their infant son. All murdered by Death Eaters.

Imogen had felt sick to her stomach. She felt helpless, as if nothing she could do could make _anything_ better- if the Montgomerys were dead, if those who stood up to Voldemort and fought against him were dead, what was the point?

It was infuriating.

“Maybe you should ask Madame Pomfrey for some Pepper-Up Potion?”

“Nah. She’ll just think I’ve got a hangover.” she managed a wan smile with her feeble joke, closing her sore eyes briefly.

Sammy chuckled, pressing her fingertips to her mouth.

Imogen watched tiredly as her friend began to gather her sleek, dark hair into a ponytail, dimly registering a faint strum of jealousy at the back of her head at the brunette’s ease. Usually, it took about three spells and forty-five minutes for her own unruly curls to settle down enough to be scraped back into a bun.

Today, it was left wild and free – an erratic mane springing from her scalp. She’d been woken, late, by Lily screeching at her to get ready, and had only had time to take a quick shower. Her hair, sadly, had been left to dry on its own.

At least it was clean.

“Nice bird’s nest, Waters.” A snotty voice, full of smug amusement, trilled from behind them.

Imogen turned round to see Gloria Sawyer and her cronies lounging at the desks three rows back.

Of course. Gryffindor and Ravenclaw had Charms together, didn’t they. Fan-bloody-tastic. Although it was a wonder at how Sawyer managed to be Sorted into the house valued for their wisdom _._

“I’d say you were being sarcastic if you had the brain capacity, but obviously not. So, cheers.” She shot back, unabashedly catty, raising her eyebrow. Those surrounding who had heard her harsh response turned to watch, their interest piqued.

It would never be said that Imogen Waters was afraid to get bitchy on occasion.

Actually, it would never be said that Imogen Waters was afraid to do much, really, whether it be out of actual Gryffindor bravery or simple foolishness. Probably the latter.

There was no denying Imogen could fly into a rage of Lily Evans-like proportions, nor was there any doubt that she was as quick with her words as she was with a wand. Her habit of letting loose insults and curses at equal frequency was almost as infamous as James Potter’s hair, as were the rumours of her detention record. Legend – or, more likely, Augustus King –told that it rivalled that of the Marauders.

Gloria didn’t seem to register the insult, simply pursing her blood-red lips and tossing her perfectly coiffed brunette hair. “Sucked anyone else off, slag?” She asked, innocently.

Imogen narrowed her eyes to slits as Sammy’s mouth dropped open. “No.” she said, sharply. “I haven’t.”

“Well you had to do _something_ to make Black so defensive, right?” Gloria simpered, and her plastic replicas giggled with her in sugary tones. “Give a boy a blowjob and he’ll do _anything_.”

Murmurs erupted from those who watched, the gossip wheels already turning in their heads. Imogen groaned inwardly, knowing that the false rumours of her giving Sirius cunnilingus would spread quicker around the school than a bad case of Dragon Pox. Or an STI, in this case.

“Alright you _heinous bitch_ ,” she countered vehemently, ignoring the collective gasp from the surrounding students, “Sirius happens to be a _friend._ I’d defend him, too, if you were going about calling him a whore.”

Gloria practically snarled in outrage, opening her ruby-slicked lips to bite out a sharp, albeit rather dim-witted retort, but she was interrupted by Professor Flitwick.

“Wands at the ready, please!” He chirped, oblivious to the tense atmosphere in his classroom.

“Are you alright?” Sammy asked, her rosebud lips tugged downwards in a concerned frown.

“I’m fine,” Imogen replied, “she’s just irritated that she’s got no chance with Sirius, that’s all.”

Sammy smiled at her. “She is a bi – a horrid girl, isn’t she?”

Imogen laughed. “You can say bitch, Sammy. It’s alright.”

She shrugged. “I don’t like to. But she is a bloody mean one.”

Imogen smothered her laugh with her hands, apologising profusely when Flitwick cleared his throat at them.

 

*.*

 

“Alright,” Marlene instructed, holding a battered book in one hand and brandishing her wand with the other, “like we practised, mm?” With her hair tied back from her face, expression fierce and focused, she looked as if she'd been in the field for years, rather than simply practising in her dormitory at night.

“Yeah.” Imogen agreed, tightening her grip on her own wand.

“ _Reducto!_ ” they cried in seamless synchronisation, red jets of light erupting from their wands and smacking into the dummy Professor McGonagall had set up for them.

The force of the two spells sent it flying back into the wall, where it landed with a resounding crack, and then fell to the floor.

“Nice,” Imogen noted, as she watched the dummy begin to smoke.

“I _like_ this book!” Marlene squealed, snapping it shut. “The arm movement suggestions are brilliant.”

The book was another gift from their Transfiguration Professor and Head of House, who’d taken an interest in their training and had since become a sort of generous benefactor to their cause, calling them into her office to speak with them at lunch.

“I hear you two have been practising your wand work in your spare time.” She’d commented, offering them both a biscuit. McGonagall was prim and severe as always, hair scraped back in a grey-streaked bun, lips thin, even as she was holding sweets.

Imogen, who was fairly sure that those were the same ones she’d been presented with after her very first detention, had declined, instead choosing to say, “Yes, Professor. We have.”

“All last year!” Marlene had added, through a mouthful of biscuit.

“Good.” McGonagall had said pithily. “It shows in your school work.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

McGonagall waved a hand at the formality. “Miss McKinnon, Miss Waters, I’m sure you’re very curious as to _why_ I asked you here.”

“Yes,” Imogen shared a nervous glance with Marlene, wondering if they had done something wrong, “I – _we –_ are.”

“As I’m sure you’re aware,” the Transfiguration Professor began, and screwed the lid back on the jar of biscuits, “dark times are coming.”

Imogen tensed. Marlene swallowed her biscuit.

“It is not hard to see that all this,” McGonagall mumbled, gesturing, until she found the right word, “ _practising_ , is not for simple academic purposes. Yes?”

“Yes.” Marlene confirmed, after a lengthy pause. She fidgeted, pulling her skirt further down her thighs - not that it did much to cover her legs in the first place.

“The tragedies you both have suffered… the deaths you have both seen… I can imagine you would want to be adequately prepared.”

The girls both flinched. Marlene's family had been killed way back in second year, and she'd been living with her aunt ever since. Her reasons for fighting were obvious. As for Imogen, only a few people - the girl sitting beside her, Lily, the professors - knew the motive behind her thirst for heroics. Not even the Marauders were aware of what happened in fourth year, with only James having a faint inkling that something had gone awfully wrong during that summer.

"The Ministry said - after, I mean - that they were... were doing their best, so that nothing like _that_ could happen again," she said quietly, twisting her fingers in the hem of her skirt, "but their best just. Um."

"Isn't good enough." Marlene finished, with a low sort of anger.

Their professor sniffed. "The establishment rarely intervenes where it is needed the most," she said sagely.

After that, McGonagall had requested they be open to instructing others in self-defence spells, although she’d also requested they call it _revision._ Then, she’d given Imogen the dummy and Marlene the book on various curses and jinxes. It was old, the purple binding crumbling and the gold lettering- that spelled out _Starlington’s Spells for the Darker Times_ – peeling off.

Its pages were yellowing, the ink faded so much that Imogen had to squint to make out a few spells – but _damn,_ was it brilliant.

Its index alone was enough to make her screech with excitement; it gave details of curses she’d never even heard of, jinxes that made speech scrambled, hexes that caused someone to go temporarily blind – all non-lethal, all relatively harmless, except for a section in the back labelled _Curses for Dire Circumstances_.

They were spells for someone who was opposed to seriously maiming others, someone who was fighting against dark magic. An Auror, perhaps.

It also dictated new ways of casting classic spells, such as _reducto_ or _expelliarmus,_ instructing its readers on the best wand motion and posture, scrutinising each detail down to the preferred _pronunciation_.

The book, albeit having to be handled carefully, was casually thrown about by Marlene.

“Oi!” Imogen warned her, after she thumped it down – rather unceremoniously – on a nearby desk. “That’s a bloody goldmine, McKinnon – watch yourself!”

Marlene just rolled her eyes. “Loosen up, darling. You’re too… stressy.”

“That’s not a word.”

“Does it matter?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Uptight, then.” Marlene amended, and Imogen rolled her eyes.

She was about to bite back when a tall, handsome boy in an impeccable suit and dark, heavy robes walked into their little classroom. His expression was one of intense distaste as he closed the door firmly behind him. There were dark circles under his eyes, hinting at sleepless nights, and something quite hollow in the way he walked.

Imogen kept a tight grip on her wand.

Marcus Selwyn surveyed them both, his icy blue eyes sweeping from girl to girl, taking in their defensive postures and confused expressions with his upper lip curled – not quite a sneer, but close to it.

“Imogen Waters, am I correct?” he asked, stiffly. That was a good way to describe him; _stiff,_ holding himself as if he had a broomstick shoved rather far up his arse.

She nodded.

“Slughorn sent me here.” he intoned, shutting the door behind him. His eyes darted around the room; while his voice and expression said he was bored, the way his gaze snapped to every move she made said otherwise.

“Why?”

“He heard you’re starting a defence club, of sorts. I’m to join.”

He was prompt, she’d give him that.

Marlene was the first to speak after that. “Why do you need defence?” she asked, sharply. “I thought you had plenty of willing human shields – sorry, _friends_ – to help you.”

Her scathing tone was enough to make Selwyn flinch. “I don’t have friends, I – I’m not –”

“Oh no, of course not. I’d forgotten. Friends are beneath you, aren’t they?”

“No.” he shook his head. “I mean that I don’t have friends any _more._ ”

Imogen frowned. “Why’s that?” Personally, she would have assumed there would be plenty of those who would flock to the newly-orphaned boy, in hopes that he would be thankful enough for their ‘friendship’ to give them some of his enormous fortune.

“I’m not seventeen yet. I won’t be until late December, next year, actually. So my little brother and I, we went to live with our guardians.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that.” Imogen interrupted snappishly. “Doesn’t explain the friends thing, though.”

“If you’d let me finish, I will.” He retorted.

She pressed her lips together, rolled her eyes, then nodded. “Fine. Go on.”

He scowled. “Our guardians are… supportive. Of Muggles.” Sighing, he passed a hand through his scrupulously tidy hair. “Living with Blood Traitors is rather detrimental to one’s popularity in Slytherin, at the moment, as you two probably know.”

“So,” Marlene began, tapping her wand against her thigh, “all your batshit former-comrades aren’t all that fond of you now, are they?”

“No.”

"Must be awful to be hated for something you can't help," Imogen commented dryly, pointedly, and Marlene snorted.

Marcus scowled.

“And you need our assistance.”

“I – yes.” He admitted, begrudgingly.

To say Marcus Selwyn was incredibly uncomfortable would be an understatement.

Imogen crossed her arms. “They’re threatening you?”

Selwyn pressed his lips together, clenching his fists, and nodded.

“Who?”

“You _know_ who.” He replied viciously, and Marlene scoffed.

“Voldemort’s threatening you?” she teased. “Sorry, dear, but I simply don’t think you’re important enough.”

He cast her a contemptuous glance, full of fury, and spat “Malfoy. The Blacks. Among others.”

“My,” Marlene breathed in mock admiration, “aren’t _you_ popular?”

“He’s not doing it for himself, Marlene.” Imogen deliberated, tilting her head to one side and considering the boy before her. “He’s too proud for that. He’d rather be hexed to bits than ask two, ah, _filthy Blood Traitors_ for help.”

“His brother?”

“I’m guessing so.”

“It doesn’t _matter!_ ” Selwyn exploded wrathfully, _suddenly,_ his handsome features twisted in anger. “I just need your _help!_ Just – just _stop_ with this,” he waved his hand as he searched for the word, a complete opposite to his normal calm, collected self, “this humiliation, will you? Isn’t it enough that I’m being subjected to the torture of living with two Muggle-loving scum who think that they can fill our heads with their _bullshit_ –”

“Shut up.” Imogen ordered furiously, raising her wand.

He jutted out his chin in defiance at the order. “Don’t tell me to _shut up,_ you filthy mud –”

“ _Petrificus Totalus!_ ” Imogen barked, having had enough of Selwyn’s disrespect.

The spell hit him square in the chest. He toppled to the floor, his head cracking against the stone. His arms were sandwiched to his sides, his thighs and calves stuck together - immobile. His eyes were furious. Blazing, actually. She was surprised there weren't little flames spewing from them, to be honest.

“Bugger.” She swore, pressing a hand over her eyes. “I didn’t think that through.”

“He was about to call you a mudblood,” Marlene said dryly, bending over Selwyn to take his wand, “I think you’re slightly in the right. For precautionary measures,” she held up the wand when Imogen gave her a questioning look through her fingers, and tucked it into her pocket.

“I’m going to be in so much trouble.” She sighed regretfully. "James is going to _laugh at me -_ detention, for a petrificus totalus? This is humiliating."

“Psh,” Marlene waved a hand, “I think not. He wouldn’t rat, would he? A Slytherin would be far too ashamed to even mention a Blood Traitor like you having beaten him. _Wouldn’t they_?” she directed the last part at Selwyn, whose eyes narrowed dangerously.

Imogen fidgeted nervously, tucking her wand away. She began to pace. “I think we should help him.”

“Possibly. His reflexes aren’t very sharp, and he’s stupid enough to call _you_ a mudblood. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’ve garnered a bit of a reputation, darling.”

“People keep saying that.” Imogen mumbled, agitatedly.

“Well, you have.” Marlene continued casually, as if there wasn’t a vengeful Slytherin lying on the floor, probably concocting their deaths in his head. “A surprising amount of people are a little bit terrified of you. Amos Diggory nearly wets himself every time you’re mentioned. Not even _I_ instil that fear in his weak little heart.”

“Amos Diggory tried to pull me into a broom closet with him,” Imogen snapped, “it’s not my fault I cursed him within an inch of his life. I thought he was going to assault me!”

“He’s a little prick anyway. Maybe you should make it a yearly thing.”

“Can we please focus?” Imogen asked, gesturing towards Selwyn.

“Oh, right. Sorry, darling.”

“Right. So we help him.”

“Should be fun.” Marlene commented sarcastically.

“We teach him how to defend himself, but we _cannot mention it to anyone._ ” Imogen commanded.

“Of course not. The Gryffindors would be outraged and the Slytherins would be murderous.”

“Marlene,” Imogen asked, “has anyone told you that you’re very quick on the uptake?”

“On numerous occasions.”

“I thought so.”

They smiled at each other. Selwyn, having just regained the ability to move his vocal cords, made a whining groan-screech of frustration.

“Oh, shit,” Imogen said, realising her spell was wearing off, “sorry.”

She cast the counter-curse and watched him, warily, as he got to his feet and dusted off his suit.

Selwyn shot her a murderous look, but without his wand and with two trained on him, he could do nothing. “Was that necessary?”

“You were hysterical, Selwyn.” she reminded him, her wand unwavering.

“You’d gone batty,” added Marlene, “quite mad.”

“Exactly,” Imogen said, amusement edging into her tone, “I had to restrain you before you injured yourself.”

Selwyn yanked a clump of hair that had strayed from his neatly-combed locks off his forehead. He was livid; his breaths came in furious pants torn from his lungs, his nostrils flared, and his suit was in disarray.

He looked more than a little bit sexy. A quick glance at Marlene’s appraising expression told Imogen she thought so, too. Merlin, she'd _like_ to be the cause of his current state of dress. Maybe that would make him less... stiff.

She commended herself quietly on her choice of words. An excellent pun, by all accounts.

“You two – Gryffindors – _insane_ –” he choked out, before clamping his mouth shut.

He took several deep breaths, in and out, for a few minutes, his eyes squeezed closed. While he was doing this, the two girls exchanged questioning looks.

“Er,” Imogen said curiously, “what are you doing?”

He opened his eyes. “I’m… calming… down.” He explained, between breaths.

“Oh. That’s good, I suppose.”

“Are you always this ridiculous?” he eyed the two of them disgustedly, and Marlene grinned at him.

Now, Marlene’s smiles were always a little disarming. After all, she was an unusually tall girl with a _great_ set of legs on her, which she often showcased in her very short skirt, and was intelligent, wickedly funny, _and_ had a pearly white set of gnashers. A smile from one Marlene McKinnon had felled many a strong man.

“Yes.” She replied.

He swallowed, but held her gaze. Apparently, he was not one to fall victim to his own raging teenage hormones. The expression of distaste lessened somewhat, but not completely. “So you’re going to help me?” he asked.

“We are.” Imogen said.

Selwyn stepped forward, and held out his hand to shake. She took it. His grip was firm to the point of being almost painful, but she held back her wince. She wasn’t going to allow him any modicum of power in this deal.

“You might think I’m scum,” he said, still holding onto her hand, “but so do the Dark Lord and his supporters. And if I am scum, then He is scraping me off the porcelain.”

“Merlin, are you actually speaking in metaphors right now?” Marlene asked dubiously. “Just say what you mean, it’s much easier.”

Selwyn shot her an exasperated squint, sighing audibly. “If you’re having trouble understanding –”

“Oh, I understand perfectly well, _Pureblood_ ,” she retorted, “but I could do without the dramatics.”

They glared at each other.

“Er,” Imogen interrupted, removing her hand from Selwyn’s death-grip, “the free lesson’s going to be finished soon, we should probably… go.”

“Right.” Selwyn broke away from Marlene’s gaze, nodding at Imogen. “I – er. Thank you.” he said, rigidly.

“Don’t mention it.” She told him, motioning for Marlene to give him back his wand.

The other girl handed it to him, albeit reluctantly and with her own still pointing at him. "Seriously," she ordered, "do _not_ mention it. At all. To anyone."

He sniffed. "I can assure you," he murmured, "I won't be."

Selwyn gave them one last glance before he ducked out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Well.” Marlene commented. “That was odd.”

"All for his brother?" Imogen mused.

"Apparently so," her friend replied, "Slytherins _are_ awful protective of their own, you know. They’d do anything."

"Family is forever, boys are whatever?"

"Don't be silly, Immy darling. It'd be in Latin, at the very least."


	4. The Episode

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imogen has a little episode in the face of James' meddling. Sirius is confused.

“Sirius.” Imogen greeted, sliding into the seat next to him at dinner.

He gave her a grin, shovelling potatoes into his mouth. “’Ello.” He said.

“Lovely.”

“I try.”

She took a deep breath. “Just so you know,” she began cautiously, “the majority of the entire school thinks I gave you a blowjob. So you might, er, want to dissuade those rumours.”

Sirius immediately inhaled his mouthful of food, coughing and spluttering. “What?” he choked, thumping his chest with one hand.

“Gloria Sawyers has managed to convince herself, and quite a few others, that I’m getting it on with both you and Cumberstone.”

He finally managed to gulp down enough potato mash so that his airways were no longer clogged. “Merlin. Did I bother her that much?”

“Apparently. Thanks for defending me, by the way, even if it did have extreme negative effects.” Imogen patted his shoulder and began to stack her plate with chicken, bread, and other delicious foods Hogwarts had to offer.

“No problem. Is it true you called her a heinous bitch?”

“Certainly is.”

“Right to her face?”

“Indeedy-do.”

“Shit," he remarked, eyebrow raised, "I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

She grinned at him, and he smiled back, and they ate in companionable silence.

This was the thing with her and Sirius; they never really spoke for extended periods of time. This was normal. A few witty comments, then James, Remus, Gus or Marlene would plonk down into the seat opposite or next to and kick the conversation up the backside.

The odd, in-depth discussions – if you could call them that, even they were quite short – were relatively new to their particular brand of friendship.

Imogen was just beginning to relax, the knots in her shoulders loosening after a long, confusing day when James thudded down on the bench right next to her.

“Gen.” he said, uncharacteristically serious.

“Mmf?” she asked, chewing a piece of bread.

“Is it true,” he began delicately, wetting his lips, “that you are engaging in some kind of torrid affair with both Padfoot and the newly-appointed Professor Cumberstone?”

She swallowed. “No. Although I’m flattered that anyone would think I’m able to manage that,” she added thoughtfully, “hm. Actually, yes it is true. Very true. At least the Cumberstone part.”

“Oi.” Sirius protested.

James sighed in relief. “Thank Merlin,” he moaned, massaging his temples, “that would’ve been _awful_.”

“Sorry?” Imogen laughed, disbelievingly.

“It’s just,” he fidgeted, hazel eyes darting between her and Sirius, “the idea of you two… well, it’s worrying.”

“Worrying?” Sirius asked, leaning forward to peer past Imogen and squint at his best friend.

“Er,” was his expressive reply.

“Spit it out, mate.” Sirius urged, eyes narrowing.

"Well, it's just that... um..."

"James," Imogen warned, "tell. Now."

"Yes James. Do tell. Why is it _worrying?_ "

“Youreamanho.” James mumbled, barely moving his lips.

“What?”

“Yes.” James nodded, relieved.

Imogen thumped him. “No, you twit. What did you say?”

His relieved expression dropped, followed by that of pain, then of discomfort. “ _Ow._ ” he whined.

“ _James_.”

“OK, fine, fine.” He pushed her hands away, frowning. “I said, you are a man whore.”

Sirius reeled backwards, almost slamming into a fifth year boy, who gave him a dirty look before shuffling further down the bench. “ _Man whore?_ ” he demanded incredulously.

“I thought you were going to say something nice about us both being too evil.” Imogen noted, grinning. “But this is better. I like this.”

Sirius ignored her, staring past at his best friend. “Do you bring my _virtue_ into question, sir?”

“Er. Yes?” James squeaked, cowed by the suddenly-thunderous expression that descended upon the other boy.

“And what does it have to do with my courting the young Lady Waters?”

“Well. Ah.”

“Yes, _Potter,_ ” Imogen queried, her interest piqued, twisting round to prop her chin in her hands and adopt a pseudo-innocent expression, “what _does_ Mister Black’s reputation have to do with his courting me?”

“I… I – erm – _Imogen please don’t be mad._ ” James begged, suddenly grasping one of her little hands in both of his irritatingly large ones. His eyes were wide, fearful – almost comically so, his lips pinched to hamster-like proportions. She recognised the expression as one she hadn’t seen in _years,_ one usually only instilled by Mrs Potter.

It was James’ _I did a bad thing and I regret it immensely because oh shit am I in trouble_ expression.

“What did you do?” she demanded, voice lowering.

Her friend whimpered, extending his legs slowly so as to inch away from her, but she grabbed his tie and pulled him close. Rumours be damned. Gloria Sawyer could construct elaborate tales of her ‘torrid affairs’ as _much as she wanted._

She waited, her face inches from his, staring into the depths of his eyes. She felt Sirius chuckling behind her, no doubt stealing the food off her plate like he always did once her back was turned, despite his own being piled high. James tried to avoid her gaze, but considering her furious expression was filling his line of vision completely (really, all he could see was blonde curls and a twitchy nose), it didn’t work too well.

He broke after about five minutes. “Fine!” he shrieked, and she released him. “Fine!”

“What did you _do_ , James?”

He cleared his throat, adjusted his tie. He eyed her warily over the rim of his glasses, which had been knocked askew in the altercation. “I –” he swallowed, “I _might_ have promised your dad to ward off any inappropriate suitors.”

Imogen opened her mouth to retort, but no sound came out except for a growling, disbelieving snarl. Her chest heaved, her fingers curling into fists. Several witnesses would swear that they saw her hair expand in volume, the curls practically _crackling_ with electricity.

“Oh, bugger,” muttered Sirius, and wrapped his arms around her waist.

He tucked his chin into her shoulder, like he’d seen Remus do sometimes, whenever the tiny girl’s rage got the better of her. You could never be too sure with Waters and whatever the hell she’d do next – whether it be deciding that jumping off the Astronomy Tower to test the strength of _wingardium leviosa_ was a fantastic idea, or trying to dye her cauldron purple – but if there was one golden rule, it was _for Merlin’s sake if she goes quiet_ sound the alarm. Her hair tickled his nose, and he shuffled so that she was wedged between his thighs. Even when he was hunched over, Waters was immediately swamped in his robes.

“ _You what?_ ” she hissed, in a teensy-tiny voice, barely aware of the boy holding her back. “When?”

James’ eyes darted from side to side, his lips pursed, colour rising to his cheeks. “Er. Erm.”

“ _James Potter –_ ”

“F – fifth year.”

She hissed.

He was paralysed; unable to flee, trapped within the spectrum of _the look_ that was radiating from Imogen’s bulging eyes.

“Hey, strangelings. What’s the – oh, shit.” Gus shuddered to a halt next to where his fellow Gryffindor sat, grimacing at the somewhat familiar sight of Imogen Waters chucking a fit.

She barely registered his presence, being far too absorbed in the _apoplectic rage_ that was churning inside her at both her father’s and James’ meddling in her romantic life.

“Boys,” Sirius instructed, tightening his hold on Imogen, his voice slightly muffled by her hair, “I’d run.”

 

*.*

 

“ _I am so angry._ ” Waters ranted, pacing back and forth in the abandoned classroom. “ _I am filled with righteous fury._ ”

“I know.” Sirius said shortly, using his wand to clean the dirt from under his fingernails. “You mentioned that.”

“He has no _right!_ No right, whatso _ever_ to decide who I do and do not shag!”

“Er,” he interrupted, coughing, “I think it was courting. Not shagging.”

Waters ignored him, fuming. She was muttering to herself, one hand planted on her hips while the other brandished her wand, cheeks flushed and lips red from biting. Her hair had, indeed, increased in size, and was now springing from her head in wiry curls. She looked like a cute, albeit demented, doll.

Sirius frowned. Cute? He peered closer at his friend. _Was_ she? True, she had a cute little upturned nose, and eyes that were too big for her face, and a cute little rosebud mouth – in fact, to an unbiased witness, she was _very_ cute. Adorable, even. Well, in the sense that she had all the characteristics of _cute_.

 _Say cute again,_ said a voice that sounded remarkably like James’.

 _Cute,_ he thought, in retaliation, watching as Waters fisted a hand in her crazy hair, scowling in distaste. He didn’t pay much mind to the fact that he was arguing with himself. She said something, probably to him, and he nodded but he wasn’t listening – only watching how she ran her teeth along her bottom lip. And yeah, it was pretty damned adorable.

His frown deepened. He’d never considered that, before. He’d always seen Waters as, well, _Waters._ James’ best friend outside the Marauders, his mate, good for a laugh and a bit feisty. The short little thing that somehow managed to get into as much trouble as they did, probably at the fault of Prongs. Moony’s swotty buddy, at least until Sammy came along. On par with Gus in terms of familiarity. Pretty, sure, but never _cute._

She gave a particularly irritated shriek, jolting him out of his reverie. 

 _At least she’s not quiet,_ he thought, checking his watch. It was ten thirty. Three and a half hours, her anger had lasted. Three and a _half._ He was both impressed and irritated. He went to interrupt, to tell her _oi mate it’s time to simmer down I’m tired_ , but then she – she dropped her wand.

And picked it up.

This, of course, wasn’t unusual. When flying into irrational bouts of fury, Waters tended to get clumsy. What _was_ unusual, however, was the rather nice bum that suddenly came into view when she bent at the waist. And the legs.

 _Merlin,_ the legs. Why hadn’t he noticed those before? Maybe because they were so far down. Or because the knees were so distracting. He squinted. They _did_ look angry, didn’t they?

Sirius wet his lips as she straightened, shifting uncomfortably. Wondering why on earth he was suddenly so horribly affected by this. He’d seen bums before. Many bums. A whole _parade_ of perfectly nice bums and legs; never mind Imogen Waters’. He tilted his head slightly as she straightened up. Merlin, they were firm, too, and the skirt she was wearing didn’t do much to hide it, either.

She whirled to look at him, and his gaze snapped up. To her lips, which were parted in surprise. “What?” she asked, and he realised that he must’ve said something out loud.

“Er. Sorry?” Sirius mumbled, staring at her swollen mouth, her flushed cheeks. _Stop it,_ he told himself, swallowing.

“You said something? About a firm?”

“No.” he replied, shortly, swinging his legs forward to leap off the desk upon which he sat. “I didn’t. No firms. No… firmness, at all. Done with your _righteous fury,_ then?”

Waters gave an irritated grumble, opening her mouth to make some sharp retort, but in three long strides he was right in front of her and his hand was gently pressing on her lips. “Mm – _mmf,_ ” she began, but he shook his head.

“Before you start, I’m not trying to say your opinion is invalid,” he assured her, bringing up his other hand to pat her on the shoulder, “you’ve made your point. But it’s _ten thirty_ and we need to get ourselves to bed.”

She quirked an eyebrow.

“Not –” he stammered, taking a step back and moving his hand from her mouth, “not _together_ – I just mean –”

She scoffed out a laugh, eyes twinkling. “I know _that,_ Sirius. Merlin, you’re blushing!”

“I am not.”

“You _so_ are. Why, is your virtue in danger of being,” she lowered her voice, pouting suggestively, “compromised?”

He chuckled nervously, slapping on a bright, toothy grin. “’Course not,” he said, refusing to think of what Imogen Waters compromising his virtue would look like, “can we go? I need my beauty sleep.”

The feeble joke appeared to work, and she snorted, punching him lightly on the arm. “Alright. I’m sorry for keeping you,” she added, sheepishly, peering at him through her lashes. “Sirius, you really didn’t have to stay.”

 _I wanted to._ “Eh,” he shrugged, “ _someone_ had to make sure you didn’t hunt Prongs down.”

Her expression turned worries. “Bugger,” she murmured, chewing on her lip, “I wasn’t _too_ mean, was I?”

Sirius arched an eyebrow, stubbornly ignoring how appealing her mouth suddenly looked. _Sleep deprivation,_ he told himself, _that’s all it is._ Everyone knew that lack of sleep could intoxicate someone just as well as a good bit of firewhiskey – he was drunk, and people were always more attractive when you were drunk. “No meaner than Evans.”

“Ah.”

“Mm-hm.”

Waters sighed, but straightened her back. “I’ll apologise when he does.” She said resolutely, more to herself than to him.

He nodded. That was what usually happened, after one of her temper tantrums. She would fire up, blaze around for a few hours, then settle down. At least, that’s what Moony always told him. The more placid of the boys tended to be the one who could calm her down, but he hadn’t been there at dinner, so Sirius had had to fill in. Her furious ‘episodes’, as the boys tended to dub them, didn’t happen often at all – but her reputation with spell-work and the fact that she was normally quite easy-going made it all the more terrifying, and worthy of note.

“Sirius,” Waters said suddenly, quietly, “I _am_ sorry.”

Before he really acknowledged what he was doing, he’d reached out and brushed his fingertips over her back, lightly skimming up and down her spine. “’S OK.” He muttered, mortified.

While both he and Waters tended to be rather touchy-feely with their friends (he with the Marauders, her with Evans and McKinnon), and they’d hugged more than once – this was different. It was lighter and heavier at the same time; a caress that spoke volumes. Her eyes flicked up to his, her brow creased in a frown.

He jerked his hand back, clearing his throat.

Waters gave a nervous little laugh, turning towards the door. “Ten thirty, you say?” she asked brightly, changing the subject.

“Yup.” Sirius put his hands deep in his pockets, so as to avoid any more unwarranted touching, staring at the ground.

“Well, at least nobody can say my stamina is lacking.”

“You’re just doing that on purpose, now.” He groaned, rolling his eyes.

“Intimidated, Sirius?” Waters asked loftily, skipping ahead to open the door and peek down the hallways.

He laughed. “By _what?_ ”

She shot a glance at him over her shoulder, a wry half-grin tugging at the corner of her lips. “My ability to last longer.”

This only garnered her another eye-roll. She waggled her eyebrows at him, jerked her head in a _come on_ sort of gesture, telling him that the coast was clear. Even if they _were_ sixth years, curfew was 10pm, and detention in the first week for something as dull as staying out late was an embarrassment they both wanted to avoid.

They walked in companionable silence, stopping only to indulge in dramatic displays of over-the-top stealthy action. After the fifth time Waters forced him to flatten himself against the wall and edge his way along it, while she made strange hand-gestures to direct him, he’d had enough.

“Bugger it,” he hissed, interrupting her mid wavey finger-waggle thing.

Sirius lunged forward, grasping Waters firmly around the waist, hauling her up and over his shoulder. It was fairly easy, considering he had the arms of a beater and she the weight of a chubby kitten, yet he found himself staggering somewhat at the sudden sight of her bare, toned legs.

 _Bare?_ He wondered, scowling at the absence of stocking. Wasn’t she cold?

“ _You absolute sack of shit._ ” She whisper-shrieked, trying desperately to straighten at the waist, but to no avail.

“Do shut up, dearest,” he replied, “we’re nearly at the Common Room.”

She whined, thudding her little fists against his backside.

 _Wahey,_ he thought, then promptly told himself to shut up.

“This is going to do _nothing_ for the cunnilingus rumours, Sirius!” Waters hissed.

“Neither is you trying to grab my bum.”

“I am not!”

“Are too. Just did it, I felt your wanton little hands –”

“ _Wanton?_ ”

“Yes. Wanton.”

“I’m not speaking to you.”

He shrugged, wincing when the motion jostled her frame, eliciting a, quite frankly, terrifying growl from her. “That’s fine with me. We’ll get there faster.”

He could almost _feel_ the irritation rolling off her in waves, but she remained steadfast in her vow of silence.

At least until they reached the Common Room.

 

*.*

 

“Immy!” James cried, jumping up from his plush armchair in the Gryffindor Common Room. His hair was wilder than usual, his shirt untucked, and his hazel eyes darted between her face and her hands (balled into fists) behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

Imogen sniffed, straightening her skirt, which had no doubt been hiked up past her _bloody_ waist while she was being manhandled by Sirius. Luckily, only the Marauders plus Gus and Marlene were out of bed, and thanks to James “Traitor” Potter, most of them already knew about the lacy/black quality of her knickers. “Yes. Hello.”

Peter tittered nervously. Remus waved, chewing on a bar of chocolate. Marlene grinned. Gus flicked his gaze from her, to Sirius, to Sirius’ hand (which was, weirdly, still on her back), and _then_ grinned.

James grasped her shoulder at the same time she felt the fingers slip from the base of her spine. “Immy,” he said again, peering into her eyes apologetically, “I am _so sorry._ ”

“Really.”

“Yes. I won’t do it again.”

“Is that why Prescott never asked me out?” she demanded, raising an eyebrow.

“He was a complete and utter cock! I _had_ to have a word with him.”

“And by word,” Remus piped up, “he means _slight kidnapping and interrogation, of which both activities the rest of us were forced to partake in_. Sorry about that, by the way.”

Imogen gave an outraged gasp, turning to glare at Sirius. He grinned his lopsided grin, shrugging. Smug bastard. At least he was acting somewhat normal again. She directed her glare – hardly on par with _the look,_ but intimidating enough – back to James. “Bloody _hell,_ you prat. He was _cute!_ ”

She felt Sirius tense behind her. Weird. And why was he standing so close, anyway?

“He may have been aesthetically pleasing,” James began haughtily, “but from what I hear, that is the _only_ way he pleased.”

“Oh, come _on._ His nickname is Silvertongue Prescott, don’t start that rubbish with –”

“Actually,” Marlene interjected, “that nickname is wrongly given.”

They all turned to look at her.

“What?” she asked. “Don’t pretend that none of _you_ blokes get around.”

“ _Anyway,_ ” Imogen said, before the boys and Marlene could argue about their various adventures in bed, “what about that Hufflepuff seventh year?”

“I, uh,” James announced sheepishly, “May have sent a few… threatening letters.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“He wasn’t worthy of you!”

Imogen let out a frustrated little screech. “I would’ve liked to decide that for my _self,_ thanks,”

James shifted. She sighed.

“Daniel Greene?” she asked. “He told me he’d take me out to Hogsmeade. Never delivered.”

“Merlin, Waters,” Gus exclaimed, “you’ve got quite the list, haven’t you?”

She was about to make a retort, but Sirius grasped her shoulder and spun her round to face him. “Greene?” he asked, incredulous, “you went for _Greene?_ ”

Imogen went to take a step back but he followed, moving forward so that he was inches away. He loomed over her, his hand a gentle pressure on her arm, warm breath ruffling her hair. At least he wasn’t stroking her, like he had in the classroom. Despite Sirius being fairly comfortable with touching people, this was… new, for him. They rarely broke the careful barriers that they both had in place, him from a young age and her from the awful summer in fourth year – but suddenly, it seemed they were breaking every wall they’d ever built and re-constructing them.

She wondered if it was the impending war. Perhaps they were just _changing –_ people changed, didn’t they? And it either brought others close together or pushed them apart. She was glad that, at least, she was gaining something rather than losing it. Even if she wasn’t quite sure what that _something_ was.

Imogen swallowed back her surprise, and – Merlin, she _really_ needed to have a chat with him about personal space. And manhandling. And _petting_ people; that had just been really weird. Who petted their friends?

“So?” she shot back. “Does it mat –”

“Yes!” he interrupted, then closed his mouth. And opened it again. And closed. For a moment, she thought he was doing an excellent impersonation of a fish, and was torn between commending him and pinching his arm. “I mean, I. Uh. He’s –”

James let out a high, shrill giggle, manoeuvring his way between them so that he was facing Imogen. “What Pads here _means_ to say,” he amended, “is that Greene is sort of a massive prick.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is or has?”

He sputtered. “ _Gen!_ ” he choked, cheeks flaming, scandalised.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” she sighed, “I’m _joking._ Bloody hell, you can’t take _everything_ seriously.”

“Does that mean I’m forgiven?” he asked, hopefully.

She slitted her eyes. "No."

He sagged. "But - "

"Nup."

" _Imogeeeen -_ "

" _No._ "

He looked at her earnestly, with wide eyes and a trembling lip. She sighed.

“I want piggybacks. To every class. For a _week._ ”

Her best friend grinned. “Done.”

“Now apologise.”

James lowered himself to his knees before her, grasping her hands in his. Rather humiliatingly, he was only a little bit shorter than she was while kneeling. She let it go, focusing on the excellent amount of grovelling he was going to have to perform. “Imogen,” he began, his expression grave, “I am _so sorry_ for letting your father persuade me –”

“What did he do, seduce him?” Sirius murmured from behind her, and she snorted.

“ – shut up, Pads. I’m sorry, Gen, for meddling.”

“Because?”

James sighed. “Because it is no business of mine who you do and do not shag –”

“Court.”

He cast his friend an irritated look. “I am _trying_ to grovel, if you don’t mind.”

“Sorry, mate.”

“Thank you. And you are not cattle to be shipped from man to man under the direction of your father, or of me, as neither of us – nor anyone else – owns you.” He finished, nodding.

Imogen lifted her eyebrows in surprise. “Blimey,” she commented, impressed.

He grinned. “I’ve been reading _Jane Eyre_.”

She returned the sentiment, flashing a bright smile, and enveloped him in a hug. As best she could, anyway, what with his broad shoulders and her short arms. “Sorry, mate. I didn’t want to get that mad.”

“Eh. It’s all good, Gen.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

“Good-o.”

“Splendiddly.”

“Marvelliosity.”

“Brill –”

“Alright,” Sirius sighed, “I think that’s enough, you mad idiots.”

“What’s wrong, Black?” Gus piped up, and when Imogen disentangled herself from James’ embrace, she saw that he was smirking. “Are you the only gentleman allowed to… ah, _tangle_ with Waters here?”

“Ha,” the dark-haired boy replied sarcastically, “you’re hilarious.”

“As you should well know by now, _King,_ ” Imogen shot back, “I tangle with many a gent. As perpetuated by the Hogwarts Gossip Mill, of course.”

Marlene snorted. “Still shagging Cumberstone, then?”

“Oh, _all night long,_ darling.”

“Mmn.” Her friend agreed, smacking her lips. “He _is_ something.”

“Those eyes.”

“Those _legs._ ”

“That _arse._ ” They sighed, and James coughed.

“As much as we _do_ enjoy all this…” he gestured dramatically, “horny lady talk, I think we should all go to bed.”

Imogen rolled her eyes at the mention of _horny lady talk,_ but shrugged. "Yeah. 'M tired, anyways."

The others murmured their agreements, unfolding their limbs to stand and make their ways to their prospective dorms. The boys said their _goodnights_ in passing; Remus folding her in a hug and whispering _sorry_ into her hair (out of all of them, he understood her anger problems the most), Peter booping her nose affectionately, Gus putting his hands on her cheeks and squishing them. James lingered, ruffling her hair with one last apologetic grin, but it was Sirius who stayed the longest.

He smiled at her, sheepishly, his hands in his pockets. "So, er," he said, ignoring Marlene - who waited at the foot of the stairs, tutting.

"Yeah," Imogen agreed, even though she wasn't sure _what_ exactly she was agreeing to.

He pressed his lips together. "G'night, I suppose," he muttered.

She nodded. "Night, Sirius."

She was about to turn away, when he ducked forward and, winding one arm about her waist to pull her closer, planted a soft, warm, close-mouthed kiss to her temple. Imogen made an embarrassingly strangled noise in her throat, but before she could say _oi mate hands off_ he was gone, taking the stairs to the boy's dormitory two steps at a time, overtaking a stunned-looking James.

She looked towards Marlene, whose expression was of a similar state, and made another odd noise. This one, accompanied by lots of pointing and _waahs._

"Let's... go," her friend said slowly.

Imogen squawked.

 

*.*

 

"Alright," James demanded, slamming the dormitory door closed, "what was that?"

Sirius winced, turning slowly round to face his friend. "Er," was all he said, "what was what?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Pads. Why," his friend's tone was dangerously low, the menacing step he took forward similar to a prowl, "are you acting all weird around Waters?"

"I - I don't know what you mean." he replied, crossing his arms defensively.

Augustus snorted from behind them, sliding his long legs off the mattress he reclined on. "Come off it, mate. You were acting _very_ weird."

"Why were you gone that long, anyway?" James asked suspiciously, eyeing his friend up and down. "It usually takes Moony less than an hour to calm her down. _You_ took _three._ "

Sirius swallowed, thickly, very aware of the assumptions that were forming in his friends' minds. "Whatever you're thinking - "

"Merlin's balls," Remus said incredulously, "you bloody snogged her, didn't you?"

The reaction was instantaneous. The other boys in the dorm - Greene (the bastard) and Smith - turned their attention to him immediately, the former looking nervous and a bit eager, the latter looking dumbstruck.

"Imogen let you snog her?" Greene asked, in his wormy little voice.

Gus' gingery head whipped towards him, mouth hanging open. "For three fucking hours, Black?"

" _Snogged_ Waters - "

" - she any good - "

" - where - "

" _Bastard,_ " James hissed, "you snogged Waters! _You don't touch Waters_ you - you manwhore!"

"Might I remind you of your little speech, earlier, mate? Waters can do what she likes. And I didn't _bloody_ snog her." he retorted, trying not to let imaginings of Imogen pressed up against the inside of a broomcloset, hair messy, lips swollen, skirt around her - _focus._

Gus gave him a shrewd look. "Why were you all... touchy, then?"

"Merlin!" he threw his hands up dramatically - Sirius always thought he was meant for the stage - and sighed. "Can't I be touchy with my mates? I'm touchy with you lot, aren't I?"

"Unfortunately," Remus and Peter muttered simultaneously, both sporting the weary look in their eyes of people who had been subjected to far too many a bum-pinching by another man.

Sirius shrugged. _He_ thought it was funny.

"I _know_ Imogen can do what she likes," his best mate said testily, "it's just... you tend to mess about, mate. I don't want her to get - to get -"

"Attached," he continued, dismally, "strung along."

"Right. Just - whatever you two do is _your business,_ and same goes for your relationship - "

"There's no relationship, bloody hell - "

" _But,_ " James announced, holding up one righteous finger, "if you make her cry, even _one tear,_ I will..."

Sirius grimaced, preparing himself for a graphic description of splinters shoved where splinters should not go, or elaborate spells and their effects on his hoo-ha.

"… do nothing," the other boy finished.

He frowned. "Nothing?"

"Yep."

"Really?" Sirius asked, unwinding.

James grinned nasily. "Don't look so relieved," he crowed, "by _nothing_ I also mean I won't hold Waters back when she decides to hex you inside-out."

The boys, in perfect unison, flinched.


	5. The Brothers Selwyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A secret is revealed, and Imogen encounters both the love between family and the loyalty between friends.

“You are _so_ lucky you're pretty,” Marlene commented, lazily eyeing Selwyn's form.

She lounged in the corner of their empty classroom, legs crossed, twirling one strand of blonde hair around her finger. Since it was a Saturday afternoon, she was clad in casual – or what passed for casual, with Marlene – clothes; tight-fitting dark blue blouse, even tighter jeans, and black ankle boots with a heel that could probably puncture someone’s lung with the right amount of force behind it. There was a lazy, sardonic smile dripping of her ruby lips, eyes glinting with sharp cunning – one that made Imogen wonder if Marlene had more in common with their resident snake than she thought.

The loyalty was there, for definite. Her mum had once said that the proper difference between a Gryffindor and a Slytherin was that a Gryffindor would stand up for their friends, and a Slytherin would ensure that whoever had wrong their friend in the first place went to their grave regretting it. Imogen regarded Marlene’s sharp-toothed gaze, deciding that this particular Gryffindor had venom as well as claws. She envied her, a bit. Imogen managed the claws rather well, but she’d never managed to pull off that cool, calm and condescending thing the Slytherins seemed to ooze from every pore. Too hot-headed, she supposed.

Marcus blew out an irritated huff, dropping his wand arm. He stood in the centre of the room, facing Imogen, with his feet too close together and his attention diverted. Imogen made a noise of frustration. " _No,_ " she said, for what seemed like the thousandth time that day, "don't let your guard down. Always keep it up when you're in a duel, alright? _Always._ "

He ignored her. "What are you insinuating?" he demanded, glaring fiercely at Marlene.

She didn't look perturbed. Instead, her expression was one of boredom - her posture, that of ease. She shrugged, her tone sugary sweet. "Oh, nothing. Only that your spellwork's useless and your reflexes are … lacking."

His nostrils flared. He scraped back a lock of his hair that had fallen out of place with a heavy hand. “I –” he began angrily, but Marlene continued as if she hadn’t heard.

"It's just a bloody good job you've got your looks, is all."

It wasn't a compliment; that much was obvious.

Imogen had to agree with her friend. Marcus Selwyn, for all his pureblood swagger, was quite useless at Defence Against the Dark Arts. He hadn't managed to block a single spell from her; instead of physically _dodging_ where he could, the Slytherin tended to conjure shields at every interval, which slowed him down. If they'd been _strong_ shields, it wouldn't have mattered – but they were easily broken by a few well-aimed hexes, and he didn't seem to have much control over them.

"Doesn't matter!" she said, cheerily. "Let's keep going."

She might have snapped, if Selwyn didn't always get so delightfully _wary_ at her whenever she thought to shoot a smile in his direction. He got this wonderful pinched look about him; as if he thought she might hex him if he did anything other than freeze and look like a startled, if incredibly snobbish, rabbit. Which, actually, she probably would. It _was_ 'Defence Club'.

As it were, he cast her a nervous glance, and raised his wand again.

“This time," she told him, “don't just cast a shield straight away – try to dodge the spell, and chuck one back.”

“I don't _chuck,_ ” he retorted, “and why should I dodge? That seems very... non-magical.”

"So is walking,” Imogen reminded him, pointedly.

His only reply was to roll his eyes.

Hers was to cast a Babbling Curse in his direction.

Selwyn cried out and jerked to the right, the spell skimming his torso by mere inches. He stumbled; an _expelliarmus_ shot from his wand – she sidestepped it easily, pivoting on her right foot, and slashed an _oppugno_ at the table behind him.

It shot forward, caught him at the knees. He fell back and, in a nifty little move that surprised her, rolled sideways off its surface and into a lopsided crouch. He threw an obvious jelly-legs jinx at her ankles. She skipped over it, a breathless laugh jolting from her lungs. Her left foot hit the ground – _expelliarmus,_ fluid arm movement – and his wand went soaring into her hand.

She snatched it from the air. “Good!” she exclaimed.

Selwyn cut his eyes at her. “ _Good_?” he scorned. “How – that wasn’t _good._ ”

Imogen strode towards him, handed back his wand. “Well,” she began, “you actually moved, this time. Quick on your feet, you are. Creative.”

He stowed his wand in the pocket of his suit, scowling at her. “Oh,” he said sarcastically, “brilliant! I’m _creative._ Hold on, just let me _paint_ the Dark Lord away, why don’t you?”

“Oi,” chimed in Marlene from the corner, “don’t take the Grand Twat’s name in vain. Have some respect.”

Imogen sighed. Twirled her wand. “Again,” she instructed. A crack about fetching him some paper and stationary danced on her tongue; she swallowed it. Defence was serious work.

Selwyn shook his head; a short, sharp gesture that sent the messy strands of his hair cascading over his brow. “ _No_ ,” he said, in a tone that was almost close to begging, “we’ve been going for two hours. Straight. It’s Saturday night – don’t you two have anything better to do?”

“Several list’s worth,” Marlene interjected drily, “the top five of which include joining a band of merry anal fisters. How about you, Immy?”

“Not really.” Imogen muttered. “I’d rather not hang around the boys – ” coughed, swiped the back of her palm over her mouth “er – the Gryffindors, right now.”

“So the patriotism gets to you too,” the Slytherin noted, raising his eyebrows, “surprising.”

“No-one’s keeping you here, _dear_ est.” Marlene pushed off the wall she leant on, joining them in the centre of the room. She gestured towards the door with one hand, the other toying with the buttons of her blouse. “Leave whenever you like.”

Selwyn’s eyes flicked to the navy blue material, then back up again. As per usual, he faltered in the face of Marlene’s stunning looks and razor-sharp wit. Imogen hid a smile.

He took a breath. Squeezed his eyes shut. His gaze hardened into something rawboned, then; grief as evident as the fatigue that was almost permanently etched into his skin. He clenched his jaw. The Pureblood ducked his chin angrily, and the action seemed to grind away every harsh edge he possessed – to Imogen, he was suddenly younger, the trembling in his bones more obvious, the dark circles under his eyes deeper. The almost-casual charcoal dress shirt and trousers he’d worn in place of his usual suit looked too big for him, the sleeves rolled up past his forearms practically billowing around his elbows. His fingers were pale and spidery, twitching and curling over the skin of his wrists, as if they itched. As if there was something beneath that he wanted to scratch out.

Imogen’s mind skittered, briefly, over the old medieval concept of leeching. “She’s right. You can leave, if you want.” She held his gaze, raising one challenging eyebrow.

His returning stare was stony as always – but this time, there were cracks beneath the mortar. “I need to protect my brother,” he said, lamely.

“Why.” she demanded, aiming her wand at him.

He shot her a quizzical look. “You _know_ –”

“The first lesson I ever learned about duelling,” Imogen interrupted, beginning to circle him purposefully, “was that skill doesn’t always win. Sometimes pure, bloody _ferocity,_ and desperation, is the only thing that gives you the upper hand.”

Selwyn blinked, but retreated slowly, eyes fixed on her wand. From the corner of her eye, she saw Marlene’s expression turn grim. The other girl stepped out of proximity, returning to her corner to watch.

“The second lesson I learned was that something _always_ drives that ferocity. A belief. A person. Loss,” Imogen flicked a stinging hex that he staggered sideways to avoid, “is the most common.” Her voice did not falter; Imogen’s spine was straight and underneath consonants flowed pure steel – that old Gryffindor concrete covered her back, mighty and forceful. She felt it in each step, each breath.

Selwyn snarled and snatched his wand from his pocket. He hissed _stupefy_ and she dodged the red jet of light easily, casting a narrow _augumenti_ straight for his eyes. He spluttered through the water and slashed his wand downwards blindly – something purple went wide and clattered against a desk – it crumpled, its legs quivering uncontrollably, papers tumbling onto the floor.

Imogen sent him sprawling with a gust of air, surging forward with a follow-up hex that rendered him dazed, wand clutched loosely in his hand. She danced backwards with the sort of grace and speed that belonged to the crest of his house rather than hers before he had a chance to respond. “When the Malfoys come for you, the Blacks, the Lestranges – and they will – when they come, you have to _remember –_ ”

The Pureblood roared and lunged, wand spitting a fiery arc towards her. She dropped and rolled – scorching heat ripping right above her head – crouched. Forced him back with a _confringo_ at his feet. “ _Remember_ what you’re fighting for!” she called to him. Imogen wrenched her wand through the air again and again, twisting and coiling, magic booming through her and crackling in the space between them.

He went to reply but was forced to dodge hex after hex after hex, tripping over his shoes, until he could barely breathe for wheezing, holding up his hands in surrender. “Stop – stop,” he choked out, sweat plastering hair to his forehead.

Imogen kept her wand fixed on him. Her breathing was slightly laboured, nothing more. “Why are you doing this?”

Selwyn looked at her with mouth slack, eyes wary. He swallowed. “My brother,” he told her, hoarsely.

She gritted her teeth. “ _No._ Why are you doing this? Why are you fighting? When the Purebloods come to kill you and your family – _why are you fighting_? Loss? Anger?”

“Both.”

“Wrong.”

“I –”

Imogen shook her head sharply. “ _Wrong._ You’d be better if it was for your brother. You’d be more determined. What do you want to do, when the Purebloods come?”

He closed his eyes. His mouth trembled, as did his hands. He looked young again. Then, his gaze snapped to hers again, ice-blue and cold.

“I want to kill them,” he whispered.

“Revenge,” she told him, “will only ever end up killing _you_.”

“What do _you_ fight for, then?” he spat poisonously, lifting his chin. The boy was gone. The imperious Pureblood took his rightful place once more. “Glory? A sense of Gryffindor _good_?”

“I had a brother, once –” choked, continued, “Death Eaters. I fight for him.”

Something flickered in Selwyn’s eyes, tightened his lips and jaw. “The Malfoys – ?”

She shook her head. “It wasn’t… proven.”

He saw the look she gave Marlene, frowned. “You know it was them, though.”

Imogen hissed a breath in through her teeth. It was like a hot dagger in her chest, sizzling away at old wounds. “Yeah. I do.”

Selwyn gave her a cruel, disbelieving look. “Then _why?_ ” he demanded. “If you know it was them who killed your brother – why not avenge him? Why not let it drive you?”

“Revenge is all…” she swallowed. “All fire. You’ve felt how it burns, yeah? I went after Lucius last year. Or tried to, anyway. Had no training. My wand, and like, three defence spells I could’ve used,” a tiny smile quirked at her lips, “but I cornered him.”

“Someone stopped you.” He said. “You’d have been destroyed, otherwise.”

“Yeah. Someone did. That’s why you _shouldn’t_. Going after them with _that_ in you. With all the grief – anger – it’ll eat you up. It’ll kill you. You can’t –” she shook her head, “win, with that recklessness. It won’t work.”

Marlene spoke up finally, and her tone was about as dismal as it ever got. “Death Eaters killed my whole family. Trust me, I know you want more than anything to slaughter the bastards. It’s normal, of course. But,” she crossed her arms, sighing, “it doesn’t help.”

His chest heaved, once. “Why did they – why?”

Her lips pursed, Marlene spoke softly. “My parents spoke out against the murder of innocents, that’s why.”

He looked to Imogen. She jut out her chin and looked at the floor. When she opened her mouth, there was something broken to her tone that even she could hear. “My brother was … in the wrong place. And a Muggle.”

Selwyn swallowed. Straightened his spine. Smoothing down the pleats in his trousers and adjusting the straps of his elastic braces, he took deep breaths. “The killing of children is,” he murmured, “regrettable.” His jaw was tense but his eyes were bright, staring somewhere past her shoulder, and she knew it was his brother he saw in his mind’s eye.

Imogen felt Marlene walk over to her. Her friend put an arm about her shoulder, pulling her close. “Alright, darling?” she muttered, under her breath.

Imogen pulled away. “Fine,” she said, resolutely. She turned to Selwyn, indicating for him to raise his wand. “Again.”

 

*.*

 

There was a small boy waiting on the stairs for her when she arrived at Gryffindor tower, three hours after she’d left straight from dinner to go for a walk.

Imogen glanced at him, at his green-striped tie and icy blue eyes, and stopped. “You’re Marcus Selwyn’s little brother.” she said, one foot resting on the step upon which he sat.

His little hands were resting on bony knees. He wore expensive clothes, just as his sibling did, and had the same hair and eyes, but his stare was less sure and his expression so young. “I am,” he replied. His tone was clipped, each syllable polished and perfect. It clashed with the youthfulness of his voice; he was only a child, and it was late – he stifled a yawn, his words croaking and tired.

There was an awkward pause, in which Imogen wondered if she should just barrel past him and tear up the stairs to safety. He stared at her, unblinking. _Merlin_.

“He’s always looking at you. And that other girl. He’s always going off to spend time with you as well.” he said accusingly, his young face creased in anger.

“Uh,” she broke off, glancing towards the Fat Lady, “I know him through – through class –”

“Are you his girlfriend?” the boy demanded, his bottom lip trembling.

“ _Fuck_ no – shit – I mean, um, no.” Imogen coughed. “I – not at all.”

He frowned. “What about that other girl – is _she_ his girlfriend?”

“Bloody hell,” she exclaimed, “ _nobody_ is Selwyn’s girlfriend. Not that I know of, I mean. He _could_ have a girlfriend – anyway. We – you’ll have to ask him, alright? What – what’s your name?”

“Terence,” he said, tapping his fingers restlessly on his knees, “and he won’t say. I already asked. I want _you_ to tell me. Now.”

Imogen raised an eyebrow at his authoritative tone. _Definitely_ a Selwyn. “Uh, can’t, sorry.” she told him, warily. “It’s his secret to tell.”

She understood. He’d wanted to keep his little brother out of danger, and that applied to his knowledge of it, too. Terence’s time at Hogwarts wasn’t to be tainted.

A sort of petulant fury unique only to children passed over the boy’s features – covered with a layer of baby fat, but underneath it all was a definite sharp nobility that was mirrored in his brother’s face – and he scowled. “He’s _my_ family!”

“Um.” she said, looking around. There was nobody else on the stairs except for them; everyone else had actually obeyed the curfew. Imogen wondered, for a moment, if she should do the same – and then cleared her throat past the barely-suppressed shudder that went through her at the thought of law-abiding. “Yes. I know.”

He looked at her expectantly. “So you have to tell me!”

“Terence,” Imogen said, fighting a grin, “I don’t really have to tell you anything.”

“ _Tell me_ or I’ll – I’ll –”

“You’ll what?” she laughed, even though she knew it was cruel. “Throw money at me? Fire some red sparks?”

Terence scrambled to his feet, brand-new robes flapping around his ankles. “Don’t make fun of me! I’m a – I’m a _Selwyn_ –” he cleared his throat and said, in clearly practised tones, “I am a member of the noble house Selwyn, highest order of purest blood, and as your superior –”

“ _Superior?_ ” Imogen asked, sharply. Terence faltered. “Listen, you bloody langer –” she winced, the old Irish slang slipping into her speech again, “listen, kid. I know you’re angry that Selw – _Marcus_ has been ignoring you, or something, but that’s not an excuse to start harping on about supremacy shite. Fuck. I mean, um. _Stuff_. Alright?”

He stared up at her – he wasn’t much shorter, the little bastard – with narrowed blue eyes. His lip quivered. “He’s _my_ family,” Terence whimpered again, “I’m all he has and it’s my first year and he won’t talk – he won’t talk – to me –”

“Uhhhhhhhhh,” Imogen squeaked, as the little boy’s head colliding with her collarbone. Tears flowed thick and fast down his cheeks, soaking the front of her jumper.

Awkwardly, she petted the top of his head as skinny shoulders shook with the force of his sobs. They wracked his thin body, tremoring up and down his spine until his knees almost buckled. She wound her arms around him automatically, the mothering instinct that usually lay so dormant within her wrestling its way to the surface in the face of this poor creature, crying into her chest.

“’S alright pet,” she muttered, echoing the words her dad often used to comfort her, “uh. Mm. It’s alright. Little’un?”

This only seemed to make him cry harder. Terence clung to her so hard she almost fell over – she let go of him and cartwheeled her arms frantically, tottering back a few steps.

“Uh,” she said again, “should I… get someone?”

He mumbled something that sounded horribly like _mother,_ and she blanched.

“Let’s get you to your dormitory. It’s – it’s late. OK?”

His wailing echoed around the corridor, and then tapered off into little hiccups as he nodded, disentangling himself from Imogen’s arms. With slumped shoulders, wan expression, and more than a bit of snot on his chin, he no longer looked like the picture-perfect Slytherin son.

She delved into the pocket of her coat and yanked out a wad of tissues. “Here,” she said, handing them to him, “might want to clean up a bit.”

Terence nodded miserably, wiping furiously at his face and hands. “You’re not angry?”

She shrugged. “Nah.”

“I called myself superior.” He reminded, eyeing her suspiciously.

“You don’t really believe that, though. Do you?”

He ducked his head in exactly the same way his brother seemed to, frowning. “I don’t know,” he muttered, “Mr and Mrs Harper say it’s rubbish.”

“Are those your guardians?” Imogen asked, holding out her hand.

He took it, clasping her fingers tightly. She’d meant the tissues, but didn’t mind. She smiled encouragingly at him as he began to lead her down the corridor.

“Yes. They are.”

“Do you like them?”

Terence twisted his mouth, but not entirely distastefully. “They’re not mother and father, but they’re nice to me. Nicer than the Slytherins.” The last bit was said with a large degree of bitterness – he spat the words as if they were poison, too much malice for such a small boy.

“Did they do something to you?” she found herself asking, sharply. A sort of fierce indignation rose within her at the thought of this child, this bairn, cowering and alone in the shadows of his crueller peers.

He sniffled. “They call the Harpers ‘Blood Traitors’,” he told her, “I think Marcus is worried they’re going to attack us.”

Imogen was silent for a moment, listening to the echo of their footsteps reverberating around the dark, winding passages. They were only minutes away from the dungeons, now. To be perfectly honest, she _was_ curious about the location of the Slytherin common rooms; rumour had it, _everything_ was green. “I think they might, if we’re not careful.”

“We?” he inquired.

“Your brother’s –” _not friend,_ no, but she didn’t exactly want him hurt, “ – an alright bloke. He wants what’s best for you. Marlene and me, we’ll help you out.”

Terence gave her a watery half-smile. She squeezed his hand tight, then let go.

“Are you alright for me to go, little’un?” she asked.

He scowled. “ _Terence_ ,” he muttered correctively, but he didn’t seem all that bothered. “You can leave.”

She tried not to frown at his attempt to order her around. Shifting from foot to foot, she looked down at him. Awkwardly patted his shoulder. “Tomorrow’s Sunday, you know.”

He shot her a quizzical look. “I know that.”

“On Sundays,” Imogen lowered her voice, “I take a walk around the lake at about four.”

Terence’s lips tugged up in a quick, barely-there smile. “Th – thank you.” he muttered, and ducked through the entrance to the dungeons, looking back in time only to catch her small wave.

She watched, arm held aloft, as the darkness swallowed his retreating form. Imogen pressed her lips together. He reminded her so painfully of _him,_ her own little brother, and her heart clenched at the thought of Terence going back to a dormitory where he felt so alone.

She checked her watch. Midnight. She wasn’t sure _why_ she was surprised, she seemed to be allergic to timekeeping. Imogen sighed, turning to walk back to Gryffindor tower. She could make it there in fifteen minutes if she hurried.

Wishing she’d chosen a slightly more ninja-like outfit, rather than her purple beanie and bright red knee socks underneath a matching coat, she pulled her headgear further down over her ears. She put one hand in her coat pocket, curling cold fingers around her wand.

“ _Lumos_ ,” she whispered, and light shone from its tip, illuminating her path. The torches had all gone out after she’d dropped Terence back at the dungeons. In fact, the only light was coming from the windows – full moon, it was, and so a kind of sickly pale luminescence pooled in the corridor, but only barely enough to see by.

It was a cold night, to be one in the mood for drastic understatements. Most of the portraits she passed portrayed their subjects huddled closely together, sleeping fitfully, paintings with fireplaces overly crowded and ones without, bare. Mist blew from her lips with each exhale; her lips and nose were numb.

So _that_ was Terence Selwyn. Second in line to the Selwyn fortune. Disgraced future Death Eater. He was a nice little boy, she decided, even if he was kind of bossy. And in possession of a few discriminative ideologies drilled into him from birth.

What fun.

Imogen rounded a corner, and promptly almost died of shock when a rat – a big one, too – scuttled over her left boot.

“ _Euch_ ,” she hissed, and skittered to the right, narrowly avoiding a particularly rattly-looking suit of armour. That would simply not do.

The thing scarpered off into the shadows, squeaking nastily. Well, not nastily. Squeaking _normally._ But Imogen had a thing about rats. She found them mighty gross, for a witch.

Her heart pounding, she grumbled and turned back to her path. Imogen stuck to the stone walls this time, making sure to shine the light carefully at each and every crevice so there couldn’t be any more near-misses.

She was undisturbed for the next five minutes, the pale light of the full moon streaming in from windows situated every metre. The castle, she decided, was beautiful at night. If somewhat eerie. Its stonework was bathed in silver moonlight, surfaces melting in pools of mercury. There was no sound except for her own breathing (which was rather loud and nasal, considering the amount of dust embedded in the carpet upon which she trod, her proximity with said carpet, and distinct lack of tissues), the sort of silence that was almost like being folded in cotton wool.

Imogen actually liked the night hours, especially at Hogwarts. There was always some kind of trouble to be getting into. Her thoughts, once again, strayed to the Selwyn brothers. Marcus – it felt odd referring to him as that, but she supposed she had to, now – definitely needed her tutelage. That was for sure. He was bloody rubbish at spells. And the part of her that had brought stray cats home as a child had absolutely stuffed Terence under her metaphorical wing. Right under the feathers, was that boy. She thought of bringing Marlene along to the walk the next day – but pictured the other girl snapping at Terence and thought better.

She was about five minutes away from the Gryffindor tower when a howl cut through the night. Tortured and twisted beyond any kind of doubt, there was only one word in her mind: _werewolf._ Imogen had her palm pressed against the icy window pane in the time it took to breathe, _lumos_ off, staring out into the dark grounds. Her eyes scanned the lip of the Forbidden Forest – nothing. It must have been close to the edge, that’s all. There were all sorts of creatures in there, and none of them ever dared to come onto Hogwarts property.

She blew out a sigh of relief. “Merlin,” she muttered, and pushed away from the window – and stayed very, very still when someone’s heavy breathing sounded right behind her.

Imogen took one step forward, out of the moonlight, and spun round. Her wand brandished, she watched as the other person stumbled into the path of the window. She leapt forward – only to come face to face with a very nervous-looking Peter Pettigrew.

“ _Merlin mother of fu –_ oh shit. _Oh_ shit.” she panted, clutching her chest. “Peter, _merlin._ ”

“Gen,” he replied, darting a quick glance over her shoulder, “you should go back to your dormitory. Now.”

His urgent tone struck Imogen as odd. Very odd. “Uh,” she said, following his line of sight to look behind her, “that’s what I was doing.”

Peter grabbed her by the shoulder in an uncharacteristically forceful gesture, steering her round. “I’ll walk you back!” he said, falsely chipper.

“Bloody – oi!” she exclaimed, maybe a little too loudly, and wrenched her arm from his grip. “Don’t manhandle me, Pettigrew. What’s the matter?”

His nose twitched, and he made an odd nervous sound in the back of his throat. He beckoned frantically for her to follow him.

She hesitated only a moment. Then, realising that if she didn’t kick her arse into gear and get moving she’d lose him, hurried forward. He managed to keep in front of her almost the entire way to Gryffindor tower, where their nerves, triggered by the silence of the castle, got the better of them, making them sprint the whole way up the stairs.

They leaned against the banisters together, panting heavily. Imogen tugged off her beanie and fanned herself with it. “The bloody hell was that all about?”

“Don’t want to get a detention, ’s all,” he muttered, through gasping in great lungfuls of air.

“Since when do you care about detention?” she hissed.

“Since someone let a great bloody dog into the castle and Filch is out trying to catch it, that’s when!”

“ _What?_ ” Imogen snapped, incredulously, “someone let a dog in here? A Familiar?”

He gave her an odd little grin. “Something like that, yeah.”

"You're being awfully secretive."

"Part of - " he coughed " - part of my charm?"

She laughed. "It was you who let the dog in, wasn't it?"

"Sirius had a more active role."

"Bloody Merlin," Imogen shook her head, turning to give the Fat Lady the password, "don't get yourselves strung up by your toes, please."

Peter clapped her on the back. "C'mon, Gen," he said jokingly, "what do you take us for, amateurs?"

"I'm not going to answer that."

 

*.*

 

The library was, probably, her least favourite place to study.

It was _dusty –_ despite the way Madame Pince shrieked at the mere _possibility_ of crumbs in her precious books, she rarely seemed to clean anything. There was always a thick layer of the stuff on every available surface, coating the heavy tomes and their shelves.

The lighting was too pale for her liking, too, mincing in from the grimy windows – tip-toeing rather than shining – illuminating parchment, washing everyone out until they looked like bedraggled imitations of themselves.

Or perhaps that was just her, since Lily had dragged her out of bed at _seven o’bloody clock on a Sunday morning._ Particularly since the weird, strangled howling from last night had kept her up into the wee hours of the morning.

“Why,” Imogen moaned, rubbing at her temples, “am I _here_?”

Lily looked up from her work, shuffling the various leafs of parchment she held in her grasp. She’d bundled her hair into a sleek bun at the nape of her neck, a few tendrils escaping to frame her pretty face. “I need a study partner,” she replied, “and I want to know what the bloody _hell_ is going on with you and Black.”

Imogen blanched. “Study?” she squeaked, rising slowly from her chair. “Why didn’t you _say –_ I’ll just go and get my – cat, and, quills –”

“Immy.” Lily said sternly. “Sit.”

“Damn,” she muttered, plonking back down dejectedly.

“Tell me. _Everything._ ”

Imogen decided she didn’t like monosyllabic Lily. She was entirely too intimidating.

“There’s nothing to tell,” she said brightly, “really.”

Lily raised one imperious eyebrow, smoothing away invisible creases in her work. Despite the horrific amounts of writing on each foot of parchment, no ink stained her fingers. “I know he kissed you, Immy.”

“On the _cheek_. And – oh, bloody hell, did Marlene tell you? I’m going to _murder –_ ”

“Marlene didn’t tell me, Potter did.”

“Well – wait,” Imogen paused, narrowing her gaze at the redhead, who was gazing mutinously at the space in front of her nose as if willing her words to be sucked right back between her teeth, “since when do you and James get along?”

“We don’t _get along._ We chat.” Lily cleared her throat.

“When?” Imogen was having a hard time believing she was finding this out from Lily – last year, James wouldn’t have been able to keep his big gob shut if _Evans, girl of my dreams_ had even deigned to look in his direction, let alone _chat._

“From time to time.”

“ _Well_ –” she started, propping her elbows on the desk, but her friend interrupted.

“I want details, Immy. What’s up with you and Black?”

“ _Nothing._ He’s just acting bloody weird, alright?”

“Weird.”

“Yes! Very.”

“So, what,” Lily remarked, “Sirius Black carries you from third floor to the Common Room, kisses you goodnight, and there’s _nothing_ going on?”

Imogen grimaced. Slid lower in her chair until only the tip of her button nose was showing. “Nothing,” she squeaked.

“Imogen Kathleen Waters,” Lily intoned, her voice seething and low, “do not lie to me.”

“I’m not!”

“He waltzed into the Common Room with you _over his shoulder –_ not to mention you were both gone for three hours –”

“I was having an episode –”

“A _sexcapade_ –”

“Shut up!” Imogen shrieked, sparking the interest of several students sitting around them. Quieter, she whispered, “Lily. You’re being _ridiculous._ Alright?”

Her friend drummed slender fingers atop the desk surface. Her emerald green eyes were slitted, in a fashion that rather reminded Imogen of Genghis Khan’s right before she made to pounce. “ _Some_ thing happened. You saw his face when he found out you went for Greene. Bloody _Greene_ , of all people.”

“What’s wrong with Greene?” Imogen asked defensively. “He’s – he’s nice!”

A smile quirked the edges of Lily’s lips. “He’s a prat, Immy. An absolute cocking prat. But,” she added, rolling up her parchment, “that’s not the point. The point is that Black doesn’t _get_ jealous. He doesn’t _get_ threatened by other blokes, does he?”

Moodily, Imogen nodded. “’S’pose not,” she muttered, wisely deciding not to raise the issue of Lily deducing Sirius’ inner nuances.

“And yet. He got bloody jealous the other night.”

“Lils –”

“Oh, come _on,_ Immy!” Lily exclaimed, rolling her eyes. “Pretty damned obvious, it was. Ask the boys. Ask _King._ ”

“What’s Gus got to do with it?” Imogen said incredulously, slumping forward. The whole thing – too weird. Being sassed by pompous Pureblood Slytherins? No problem. A boy _supposedly_ showing interest in her? Merlin, no.

“King is in a brilliant position, when you think about it.” Lily replied, casually waving her wand so that a length of bright blue ribbon shot from its tip, and tied itself around the roll of parchment in her hand. She tucked it into her bag. “I mean; he’s best friends with the Marauders, and best friends with you –”

“Gus is best friends with _everyone –_ ”

“Exactly what I’m saying! He can,” at this, Lily made several swirly gestures with her hands, looming over the table like a – well, like a witch at her cauldron, “ _see_ everyone.”

Imogen frowned, propping her chin in her hands. She tapped her fingertips against her cheekbones. “Like, puppeteer type thing?”

“Yes! Yeah, I’m saying he can pick up on this type of thing. Because he knows _all_.”

“You are so weird.”

“And _you_ are so gagging for Black’s giant –”

“Stop! Stop stop _stop._ ”

Lily broke off, laughing, and leaned back in her chair. She sighed, shaking her head. “Not sorry.”

“I need better friends.” Imogen quipped.

“Who’d take you?” she retorted, sharp as a tack, as always. “We’re all you’ve got in the way of amigos, Immy.”

“Well I need better _amigos,_ then,” the blonde shot back, “look at you! Not a poncho in sight. I’m disappointed, truly.”

“No ponchos, but I’m fairly sure King would have some maracas.”

“ _Aaaand_ we come full circle.” Imogen groaned, slumping forward. “What makes you think Gus has noticed anything? What makes you think I want to know?”

“Well,” Lily pressed the pad of her thumb against her lip, “why don’t you just _ask_?”

She tipped her head back dramatically. “ _Ughhhhhhhh_.” she grumbled. “Nooooo.”

“Well, it’s either that… _or_ you tell me where you where last night.”

Imogen snapped her head back up. “You were _asleep._ ” she accused.

“Clearly I wasn’t,” she intoned, “because I remember _you_ traipsing in at bloody quarter past twelve last night.”

“I just – I needed to get out.” She said, lamely.

Lily arched an eyebrow. “I noticed, yeah. You practically hoovered up your tea last night, then buggered off to who-knows-where – on _his birthday_! Your brother’s birthday – and I know how hard it is but you promised we’d do this _together –_ ”

“Lils,” Imogen reassured, “ _Lils,_ it’s alright. I’m sorry.”

Her friend reached across the table and clasped their hands together, her expression wholly sad. “You always try to do this alone, Immy.”

“I know,” Imogen mumbled, guilt rising in her throat. To be perfectly honest, that hadn’t been the sole reason for her disappearance after dinner.

Sitting across from Sirius had been… awkward, to say the least. Particularly when she could still feel the burn of his lips on her cheek from the other night. That, and his eyes hadn’t strayed from her the _entire time_. He’d watched her with an avid sort of curiosity – like he was trying to think something through, something that had her Imogen, of course, had ignored him, considering the fact that she was a bloody coward when it came to _feelings._

So she’d leapt up and hightailed it out of the Great Hall, ignoring James’ queries of her destinations. And as soon as she’d reached the little closet on the Astronomy Tower that locked from the inside, she’d remembered that, as of that morning, her little brother would have been eleven years old.

“You don’t have to.” Lily pleaded. “Marlene and I looked everywhere, Immy. That’s time we could have all spent together, _talking._ Healing.”

“I’m sor –”

“That is not _good enough._ ” Lily practically snarled, anger flaring up in her emerald eyes like fire, sudden and hot. “I will not have a repeat of fifth year, do you hear me? I won’t see you walking around like a fucking ghost all the bloody time –”

Imogen clutched her hand tight, threading their fingers together hard enough to hurt. “I _won’t,_ ” she said hoarsely, memories of her previous year at Hogwarts and the permanent hollowness that had plagued her rising up like a tide, “OK? I promise you, I won’t.”

“You are _so_ important to me, alright?” Lily whispered. “To us. To the boys. James would go to the absolute limits for you, Remus and Peter would protect you with their _lives_ and Sirius –”

“Sirius’d do the same. He’s a mate. _Really_ ,” she said sternly, “I’m done talking about that. _All_ of that. I’d like to get this essay done on time, for once.”

Lily gave a weak smile. “OK,” she relented, squeezing Imogen’s hand once more, “OK.”

“Lily?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there is a SEVERE lack of Sirius and the boys in this chapter, but there will definitely be a plethora of BlackWater interactions next chapter. Read and review!


	6. Imogen Waters and Snuffles the Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Terence and our lovely Miss Waters take a walk around the Lake, as promised, and meet a new friend. Sirius and Augustus have something to say to Imogen in the way of accusations, and some unfamiliar feelings (and situations) rise to the surface...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we have Chapter Six of 'E Pluribus, Unum'. I understand some of you might be a bit confused about the title change, and here's the sitch: I didn't like the original title. To be honest, it didn't fit the fic at all, and so I changed it.

Imogen hurried down the steps to the common room, shouldering her satchel. It bumped off her hip as she power-walked towards the portrait hole, the stack of finished essays distinctly heavier than she'd thought.

She shoved on thick woollen gloves as she moved, winding a heavy scarf around her neck. Her black pea coat, an early Christmas present from her parents, was beautifully warm – thanks to the extra toasty charm Lily had put on it for her. On her feet were her favourite boots, rather tired from wear and tear, but comfortable as anything nonetheless.

She wanted to make a few pitstops on her way to meet Terence, deliver a few essays. Although they weren't due until the following morning, Imogen had always been punctual with her schoolwork, if not especially gifted at the task itself.

"Oi! Waters!" called a familiar voice, and she briefly contemplated making a run for it before realising that she was a  _Gryffindor,_ damnit, and she would face her problems obstinately head-on. Like a donkey. Or a mule, she couldn't remember. An animal that was stubborn.

Yes, she decided, nodding firmly to herself, she would face her problems like a casual, fierce, animal _that was stubborn._ Good.

She turned to watch Sirius jog towards her, dressed simply in jeans that were far too tight to be legal and a leather jacket, tongue cinched between his teeth. He had ink smudged on his fingers, and a thick textbook – charms, she thought – tucked under one arm. As usual, he was effortlessly handsome; his hair tousled carelessly, an easy half-smile lingering on his lips.

Not that she noticed. Or cared.

Casual. Calm. "Yo," Imogen said, tensely, "Black. What's the haps."  _Fuck._

"Hey," he greeted, "got a minute?"

"Um. Yeah." she replied, fidgeting with the strap of her bag. "I'm in a bit of a hurry –"

Sirius gave her a blindingly white smile, slinging an arm around her shoulders. He tossed the textbook on a nearby armchair, nearly whacking a studying seventh year in the head. Ignoring the poor girl's indignant  _oi!,_ his hand brushing her right arm, he said, "I'll walk with you, then."

He gestured with his free hand towards the portrait hole. Imogen smiled tightly, defiantly ignoring the warmth being sandwiched to his side emanated. "Alright."

They walked in silence all the way to the bottom of Gryffindor tower, passing fellow students who were, at quarter to four in the afternoon, slowly trickling back into the common room as the day began to descend into a distinct chill. Imogen waved at Mary, who returned the greeting with a pointed eyebrow raise in the direction of Sirius' hand, mouthing  _what?_ rather obviously. This, of course, drew the attention of several others. By the time they cleared the crowds of people, the Hogwarts Rumour Mill was abuzz.

A group of fifth years, all of whom were strangely invested in the sexual exploits of the infamous Sirius Black, turned to each other with a burning question – were the cunnilingus rumours true? Was the tiny ball of grump and general oddity often referred to as Imogen Waters getting on her knees for the disgraced Pureblood son?

(It is important to note, that, if any of said tiny ball's friends had been there – and indeed the tiny ball herself – there would have been several cracks about  _well, maybe not on her_ knees,  _probably just bending slightly_ )

The aforementioned fifth years then attempted to get a good look at Imogen Waters' knees, so as to determine whether they were scuffed or not. Upon inspection, however, they merely found that they resembled actual  _faces –_ and were all so shocked by this notion that they forgot to look for any signs of prolonged kneeling.

In the meantime, Imogen wondered if she could get hold of a time turner, somehow, go back to that moment in first year when Sirius had sat next to her during Transfiguration and  _punch him in the face._ At least she'd have been saved becoming part of the unhealthy obsession the entirety of the school seemed to have with the Marauders.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, he withdrew his arm. Turned to face her. His silvery eyes held an unfamiliar expression, but they were narrowed, and his mouth was set in a grim line, so Imogen thought she could conclude that whatever the emotion was – it wasn't a very  _good_ one.

"You've been avoiding me." he accused, crossing his arms.

Imogen felt a spark of irritation flare up in her chest. She tilted her chin to meet his stare, mirroring his stance. "I've been avoiding everyone, actually."

Sirius scowled, expression darkening with barely-suppressed anger. "Not Lily.  _Or_ Marlene. Or anyone else,  _actually._ Merlin, Waters – Peter and you had a bloody midnight adventure –"

She snorted, her eyebrows flying up so quickly they nearly reached her hairline. "If you call having to sprint a bloody  _mile_ so that fucking dog that  _your sorry arse let into the castle_  wouldn't EAT ME an 'ad _vent_ ure' –" Imogen said heatedly, the air quotations she made with her fingers resembling grappling hooks more than anything, " – then  _yeah,_ 'course."

And, alright, she was exaggerating – but he didn't have to know that.

"Doesn't – doesn't matter – you  _are_ avoiding me for no bloody reason –" Sirius sputtered, jabbing a finger into her chest.

She slapped his hand away. The sound of it rang around the corridor as he flinched back – she felt a pang of guilt, but stowed it away. She was fucking angry with Sirius Black, and she'd stay that way until she was good and ready.

" _Maybe,_ " Imogen hissed, "I'm avoiding you because you set a fucking hound on me and Peter! We had to run from it for –"

"Are you sure he was running from the dog,  _Waters_?" Sirius asked poisonously. "I mean, I've met that dog, and it's a ray of bloody sunshine compared to  _you._ "

"What, just because you found common ground in your grooming habits –"

His hand flew up to his hair, petting frantically as if to lend the glossy locks some reassurance of their quality. "Are you trying to –" he paused, mouth working.

"Yes, I  _am_  trying to say that you lick your own balls, you  _twat_!" she growled, valiantly resisting the urge to grab said balls and  _twist._  She stared up at him furiously, her nostrils flared and fists clenched. Anger was hot and tight in her bones; ragged breaths tore themselves from her lips. Bloody hell, she'd been having an alright day before  _he_ came along. There was nobody more capable of pushing her buttons than Sirius Bloody Black, she thought.

He hesitated a bit. "Oh," he fumbled, "I – that's actually a good one, Waters."

"Don't flatter me." Imogen retorted coolly, but she could already feel herself calming down.

Judging by his embarrassed smile, he could tell just as well as she could. He glanced down at his shoes, then hers, and then trailed his gaze from the toes of her boots right up to her face. It wasn't exactly pervy – no, she would have kicked him by now if it were that – but it wasn't entirely innocent, either.

Then again, it  _was_ Sirius. Not much was 'entirely innocent' with him.

"Hard not to," he murmured, grinning, "there's so much to flatter."

"Calling me fat, Black?" she inquired, one eyebrow cocked.

"Wha –  _no._ " he sighed. "I'm saying there's a lot to flatter you  _about,_ Waters."

She gave a very slow, very exaggerated eye roll. Hurt a bit, actually, but she put that down to a job well done. "Thanks."

"I –" he broke off, frowning. "I just wanted to know what I did."

"You didn't  _do_ anything."

"Obviously I did, otherwise you wouldn't be  _ignoring_ me for four days straight!"

She sighed. "Listen," she said, her words coming out softer than she meant, "it's… not you."

"Waters,  _please_ don't give me the it's-not-you-it's-me spiel." He groaned, brow furrowing.

"'S not me either!" she snapped. "It's…" she groped for the right way to say it, "family stuff."

Sirius' expression cleared. Dawning comprehension lightened his eyes, smoothed the creases on his forehead. "You've come to the right place, then." He told her, a rueful smile quirking his lips. "Anything I can help with?"

Imogen shook her head. "I'm dealing with it."

He looked at her, then; a real studying look, one that he might have given to a particularly fascinating species of beetle. Well – perhaps that wasn't the  _best_ comparison, considering that he rarely paid attention to any kind of insect that he wasn't about to pour into someone's trousers, much less their breed.

The look he gave her was probably something more akin to an especially devious prank, she decided. Inquisitive, appraising, more than a bit cheeky – and there was another thing, too, an emotion that burned bright in his eyes like a flame.  _Curiosity_.

"You always do that," he commented.

Imogen took a futile step back; he merely followed her, and she soon found herself in a predicament that Sirius seemed to be able to get her into easily – backed against a wall.

The annoying thing was – she didn't particularly  _mind,_ aside from slight fear of the impending dissection of her inner workings he was about to conduct. She could feel his warmth coasting against her exposed skin; smell the cigarettes she knew that he smoked as an excuse to get outside on days he felt as if the walls were closing in on him. Sirius had one hand planted against the wall behind her, the other coming up to fiddle with her scarf. She swallowed over the lump in her throat, heart beating so hard she thought that he'd hear it, if she wasn't careful.

"Do what?" she asked.

He wrinkled his nose. "Try to do things on your own."

"That's not a bad thing," she protested, but he shook his head.

"I meant … you don't have to. You've probably got the most mates aside from King in the whole bloody castle, Waters, but you don't ever ask them for help." He wound his fingers in the cotton of her scarf tightly, lowering his head so that he stared directly into her eyes.

"I don't want to pile my … my shit, on everyone."

Sirius sighed exasperatedly, but there was a fond sort of smile lingering on his mouth. A mouth that was rather close to hers, she thought. "That's what friends are  _for,_ Waters. We share the shit."

She laughed, tilting her chin up further. "I want that on a t shirt.  _Share the shit._ "

He grinned wolfishly down at her, flipping the fringed end of her scarf up to tickle her chin. He moved even closer, the front of his jeans brushing up against the cradle of her hips. "I'd wear that, myself."

Imogen found herself grinning at him, tongue between her teeth in the way that never failed to get a boy's attention.

(It is important to remember that while Imogen wasn't particularly excellent at seduction, she wasn't all too  _bad_ at it, either. Reports from two seventh-year Ravenclaws, three Hufflepuffs and a few Gryffindors were testimonial to this)

"I'd like to see you wear that," she told him cheekily, "maybe just leave off the first two words, though."

"Oi. Tone the sass down, bint."

"If can't handle it,  _Black_ , stop pushing me up against walls." Imogen teased.

His mouth fell open in mock indignation. He dropped the scarf, flicked her nose. " _This_ isn't me pushing you up against a wall, Waters. It's just getting cosy, is all."

She laughed at his scripted nonchalance, flicking his nose right back. "Depends on your definition, I suppose."

"Not my fault you're a prude."

She swatted at his chest. "I'm not a bloody prude, thanks."

"Oh?" he asked lightly, "is that why you're blushing? 'Cause in my experience, girls who  _aren't_  prudes wouldn't blush when a bloke gets a bit close."

Imogen's hand flew to her cheek, despite herself. "I'm not blushing!" she retorted, but she wasn't entirely sure.

"You  _so_ are," he accused, grinning, "wonder what happens when I  _do_ get you up against a wall?"

Before she could reply, Sirius was chest to chest with her, his hand cradling her cheek. The other rested on her hip, and his lips were only the barest inch from hers.

Imogen's breath caught in her throat when he rocked his hips – ever so gently, seemingly accidental – against hers, never breaking their gaze. "See?" he asked, softly. "There's a difference."

"Yeah," she nearly gasped, wetting her lips, "yeah, I see."

He raked his thumb over her cheekbone. Pressed even closer to her (she hadn't thought it was possible, not then), so much so that, if she chose to, she could wrap her legs around his waist and not drop one inch.

The thought made heat rush to her face – she suddenly thought of how exposed they were, in an open corridor on a Sunday afternoon. Anyone could walk past; a teacher, a student, a  _Marauder._ Merlin knew what Lily or Marlene would say. Yet, instead of making her want to flee, it merely quickened her heartbeat.

The errant thought of what Selwyn would think flitted across her consciousness, and it was then that Imogen remembered exactly where she was supposed to be at four o'clock, which was a mere six minutes away, if she'd bothered to check her watch.

" _Shit._ " she spat, and wriggled out of Sirius' grasp.

It was easy, since the sudden change in Imogen's demeanour from slightly-turned-on to in-more-than-a-bit-of-a-hurry was rather shocking to the eldest Black son, and he stumbled back with a fair amount of confusion etched onto his handsome features. "What –?"

"I forgot – I have to go to the Lake –" she said hurriedly, fixing her coat and scarf. " _Fuck,_ I'm late!"

"I think the Giant Squid isn't too bothered about tardiness, Waters."

"Not the Giant Squid, I promised I'd meet someone –" she broke off.  _Bugger._

It was too late to backtrack. Sirius cocked his head towards her in such a way that made her think that he should have had ears that could perk up, inquisitive. "Who?"

"Uhhh. Who indeed." Imogen replied, clearing her throat. "That is the … question."

"You're not making any sense."

"I'm not. But you… are also not."

"Imogen."

" _Si_."

"Is everything alright?" he peered at her closely. "I  _was_  joking, you know. We're mates."

She flashed an unnaturally bright grin, slipping past him to walk briskly down the corridor towards the Lake. "'Course I know. And I'm fine. Absolutely spiffing. I just – remembered I'm meeting – mlahfff," she mumbled, breaking into a run. "'Bye!"

Sirius stared after her. "What?" he called. "I didn't – what did you say?"

"Mlahfff!" she shouted back. "See you at dinner!"

Imogen tore down the rest of the corridor, made a few hasty turns, and made it to the Lake with two minutes to spare. In the meantime, Sirius was glued to his spot, staring after her for a long time.

"Odd bird," he muttered to himself, smoothing back his hair. He shoved his hands in his pockets, and tried to ignore the chill that descended upon him in the absence of Imogen Waters.

*.*

"I thought you might not come," Terence said quietly, head bowed as they strolled around the Lake.

"I got a bit tied up." Imogen admitted, smiling carefully at him. "I'm here now, though."

"Thank you." he replied, somewhat stiffly.

She squeezed his little hand in acknowledgement, trying not to giggle whenever she looked at him. The youngest Selwyn brother was  _so cute,_ what with his tiny red nose poking out from an obviously home-made, thick green scarf, and black woollen beanie shoved so far over his thick, dark hair that he could barely see. He wore a pair of  _mittens,_ for Merlin's sake. How was she supposed to deal with that?

"Have you spoken to Marcus?" she asked, instead of cooing. She had the vaguest –  _cough_ – notion he wouldn't appreciate it.

Terence nodded, albeit grumpily. "I told him I talked to you."

"Uh –"

"He wasn't happy."

Imogen  _mm_ ed and winced sympathetically, resisting the urge to boop his little nose. "I'm sorry, Terence."

"He said I should  _stay out of things that don't concern me_ ," Terence grumbled, looking up at her. His beanie slipped over his eyes, and he pushed it up with one hand. "And I said that he's my brother, and I have to know so I can help to keep him safe."

Imogen nodded. "I think it does concern you quite a bit, pet. Marcus' just being…"

"Difficult," he huffed, gripping her hand tightly, "as  _usual._ "

She laughed, the sound bright and carefree. "I can have a word, if you like. Marlene and I are – what?"

Terence, who had started smirking at the sound of Marlene's name, grinned in a wicked sort of way she hadn't seen on him before. "I asked Marcus if Marlene was his  _girlfriend_ and he nearly choked on his pumpkin juice."

"Really?" Imogen asked, curiosity piqued. "Like –  _oh shit he's onto me_ choking or  _that's ridiculous_ choking?"

Terence eyed her. "You swore."

"Uh. Sorry."

He shrugged. "Doesn't matter." he screwed up his little nose as if in deep thought. "I think both."

Imogen raised her eyebrows. " _Well,_ " she said, shocked. "You reckon he likes her?"

"He thinks she's pretty."

"What – did he say so?"

Terence shook his head. "No, it's just he's always staring at her. And not like he stares at you, either," he added, trying to scratch his cheek through his mittens, "he stares at Marlene like  _this._ "

He twisted his expression to comical extent; mouth hanging open to the vicinity of his knees, eyes glazed, spittle drooling from the corner of his lips.

Imogen had seen that stare before. Not on someone as supposedly  _dignified_ as Marcus Selwyn, but on adolescent boys en masse.  _Especially_ when looking at Marlene McKinnon. With her mile-long legs, perfect hair, striking features and equally sharp wit, there was rarely a moment in the day that Marlene didn't leave at least two or three boys staggering around like zombies in her wake.

"That's actually not all that uncommon," she mused, smiling at Terence's expression of disgust, "Marlene's a pretty girl."

Terence shrugged. "I've seen prettier."

"Oh  _really?_ Any ladies catching your eye of late, pet?"

He blushed, from the tips of his ears (quite adorably oversized, they were) to… well, not much else, considering the rest of him was covered in about four layers of clothing. She thought it was odd; in comparison to every other little boy who tended to be so unorganised they forgot to put their underwear on, much less a beanie and  _mittens._ Even at their age, the Marauders rarely bothered with dressing for the weather. Many a miserable day spent with a shivering James Potter trying to steal her scarf were proof of that.

Did Marcus make him? She stifled a guffaw, images of the uptight Slytherin wrapping his little brother up in winter garb. A strange picture, to be sure – she wondered if his stiff upper lip ever got in the way. The stick jammed up his arse, too.

" _No._ " he muttered.

"Truly?" Imogen chuckled. She nudged him, gently, with her elbow. "Sure about that, are we?"

Terence yanked his hand from hers, scowling. "You're making fun of me."

"I'm teasing you, pet. Nothing to get upset about." she reassured him, but he wasn't listening. Terence stared at a spot past her shoulder, his eyes wide. "Uh, kid? Are you alright?"

"Look," he whispered, and there was such fear in his voice that she was moving, hand on her wand, to shield him before she knew what she was doing.

Imogen whipped round, stepping in front of the young boy with her wand brandished. Adrenaline hummed through her already, warming her muscles. Preparing for the fight.

A massive black dog, its tail thumping the ground with barely restrained glee, sat before her. Its tongue was lolling and red, dangling from its jaws downright goofily.

Imogen groaned. "Bloody hell," she turned her head to look at Terence, "it's just a dog some idiots let into the school last night, pet. My mate said it was harmless."

Well. Sirius had said it was a  _ray of bloody sunshine_ rather sarcastically, but looking at the dog now, with its oversized paws and relatively clean-looking demeanour, she wasn't too worried.

Terence didn't seem convinced. "It's  _huge_ ," he said warily, darting a quick glance under the crook of her arm, then dodging back to safety.

Imogen crouched slowly, "step back a bit, pet," she said, and put her wand back in her coat pocket.

He did as he was told, though rather reluctantly. "What if it bites you?"

"Do you know how to make red sparks?" she asked.

Terence, despite being supposedly terrified, still had the backbone to roll his eyes. Slytherins: sassy till the end. "I learnt that  _weeks_ ago."

"Well, if it does bite me, shoot some sparks at it and run, alright?" Imogen made level eye contact with the beast, which stared back, unperturbed.

"Don't move quickly." was his reply. "Imogen, stay  _still_  –"

But she had already shuffled forward, palm outstretched. The dog made a growly sort of noise in the back of its throat, eyeing her hand with an expression she could only describe as  _curiosity_. It was a beautiful creature, to be sure: underneath perfect waves of glossy black fur, she could see the tell-tale pulse of strong muscle in its legs. There was an intelligent glint to its eye and a degree of knowledge to the tilt of its head, the perk of its ears.

There was a moment of pause, in which Imogen could have sworn the three of them held their breaths. The air seemed still, a tension suspended on its halting gusts, the chill – for but a second – dissipated.

Then, the dog stood and trotted forward with a gait too light for its frame, and butted its wet snout into her outstretched hand.

A fresh peal of laughter broke from her lips. "Hello you," she cooed, "hello gorgeous – er –" a quick glance in the direction of its belly, " – boy."

She scratched gently behind his ears, smiling as he lowered his head and closed his eyes in content. That familiar, distinctly feminine feeling that could potentially be characterised by a loud squeal rose up in her – Imogen fucking  _loved_ dogs. Of course, she wouldn't trade Genghis Khan for the world, but she'd always had a soft spot for the animals that didn't try to sleep on her face.

"See?" she beckoned Terence over. "He's just a big softie."

The boy chewed his lip, staring at the dog in fear. He shook his head. "I don't want to – to touch it," he spoke indistinctly, "might have fleas."

A rumble started up in the back of the canine's throat, sounding oddly to Imogen like some kind of indignation. She frowned at it. "Stop that," she told him, and then to Terence; "he won't hurt you, little'un."

"I  _know_ that!" snapped Terence irritably, grinding the toe of his boot into the soft, squelchy dirt. "I'm worried about the fleas."

Imogen raised an eyebrow. "Alright then."

He pursed lips that were turning blue in the cold, despite his layers of warm clothing. "Where did you say it came from again?"

She laughed when the dog pushed its freezing nose against her cheek, stroking the fur on his back. As she was, crouching, he stood about a head taller than her. When she straightened; his head came to mid waist. "One of my mates, Sirius. He let him in."

"Why?"

She shrugged. " _No_ idea, pet. He's a mystery unto himself." Imogen ran her hand down the length of the dog's snout. He reminded her of the old mutt her Gran used to own, the great big thing that waited at the bottom of her garden to greet Imogen and her siblings when they'd come for a feed. A faintly familiar scent tickled her nose; there was something like smoke lingering in the air, suddenly.

Imogen remembered how closely Sirius had held her – blushed – and realised the smell of cigarettes had probably been pressed onto her clothes.  _I_ was  _joking._ She shook her head. Too confusing to think about now.

Terence smiled a bit, dimples popping in his cheek. He adjusted his beanie again. "He pantsed Mulciber in front of  _everyone_ yesterday. I like him."

"Really?" she laughed. "Don't like him  _too_ much, mind, he's a bit of a twat up close."

From the dog's jaws came a sudden, booming bark – she jolted, but was unafraid. The sound was definitely joyous, ringing around the Lake as he butted against her hip.

Terence leapt backwards in shock, nearly tripping over the length of his scarf. He scowled. "Bloody dog." he muttered.

"Oi, no swearing."

" _You_ swear."

"I'm Irish."

"That's no excuse."

"The blasted leprechauns make me do it."

He rolled his eyes at her. "Are you friends with Potter, too? And Lupin?"

"Yeah. All the Marauders are good mates of mine." said Imogen. "Why?"

"And – and what about Mary MacDonald?" Terence asked, suddenly very interested in his mittens.

She didn't blame him. They were a very nice pair, with good stitching and – hang on.

"Merlin's mittens," she gasped, "you fancy Mary!"

"I – I do _not._ "

"Yes you do."

"No I don't!"

"You  _so_ do. You have a big great crush on Mary MacDonald." Imogen accused, grinning. The connection was instant, to her mind: Mary was a prefect, and she  _had_ been in charge of talking to the first years after the Sorting Feast. She was also very pretty, very kind, and exactly the type of girl that lonely eleven year olds developed crushes on.

He glared at her. "I'm cold," he announced, "shall we go back?"

"Don't avoid the topic, pet." Turning to the dog, she said, "hear that? Terence Selwyn thinks Mary MacDonald is  _purty._ "

"Stop it." He groaned loudly, crossing his arms. "Stop it  _now._ "

"I can introduce you –"

" _No!_ "

"OK, OK," Imogen chuckled, giving the dog one last pat, "I'll drop it."

Terence scowled at her still, but it wasn't quite as venomous. He rummaged in the pocket of his expensive coat, and withdrew an old pocketwatch. A family heirloom, by the looks of it, with the initials  _HS_ scribed beneath a motif of two wands crossed over the other, tied together by what looked like a single edelweiss bloom. The Selwyn family crest, apparently. Imogen stifled her incredulous look, smoothing out her features with a smile instead.

"It's five thirty," he said starchily, and clicked the pocketwatch closed with a snap, "I'd like to change before dinner."

"Sure, yeah," she felt the dog rub his head against her hip, "'bye Snuffles."

" _Snuffles?_ "

"He's  _such_ a Snuffles. Look at him!"

Terence fixed her with a look that was downright disdainful. "You're a very silly girl, Imogen."

"Rude."

"You – never mind. I'm going back to the castle."

Imogen gave Snuffles one last cuddle before jogging to catch up with Terence, tweaking one of his ears as she approached. "Hang on, pet. Want me to have a word with your brother? You never answered, before."

Terence looked at the ground, batting her hand away with equal parts irritation and exasperated amusement. An odd complexity of emotion for an eleven year old – but then again, people always underestimated children. They were capable of things far more 'adult' than most thought. He shrugged noncommittally, but his expression was pensive. "Tomorrow?" he asked.

She nodded. "I've got Muggle Studies with him last thing. I'll hex him for you, shall I?"

Terence looked alarmed. "Wha –  _no._ "

She laughed, squeezing his shoulder. "Joking, pet."

"You're not funny."

"I'm  _hilarious._ "

He gave a long-suffering sigh, but slipped his hand into hers once more. "Aren't girls supposed to be mature?"

"Goodness, no. We're just slightly less ridiculous than boys."

*.*

Augustus raised his eyebrows at her as she plopped down in the seat next to him, a breathless "sup, nerd" on her lips and smelling faintly of wet dog.

"Hi yourself." he said shortly. He looked her over, turned away.

Imogen grimaced. "I know I've been –  _scarce_ – over the past few days…"

"More like practically  _non-existent,_ Waters. Where've you been?" asked Gus, his normally easy-going tone taking on an accusing edge.

He sat, slumped and lanky, in his seat at the Gryffindor table. His hair was mussed from the wind, cheeks red from the cold. On his head perched a peaked cap; she wasn't entirely sure  _why,_ but you could never really tell, with Augustus King. Sometimes he stole hats. It was a mystery both she and James had always tried to figure out, but to no avail. They never knew where he got them from, either; hats would just flock to him, like a small parade of adoring headgear.

She mirrored his posture, interlocking her fingers and resting her chin on the pinnacle. "It's – complicated."

He gave her a withering look, his wide mouth stretched down at the corners. " _Complicated?_ " he asked. "Waters, you are my  _best mate –_ "

"Aww."

" – but I feel like punching you in the tit."

"Oh."

He hid a grin. "Yeah."

"Well."

" _Now_ explain."

She exhaled slowly, wrinkling her nose. "Honestly? There's not much I can tell you in the way of excuses. Just – stuff came up. Family shite. People shite.  _Complications._ "

"Waters," said Gus lightly, "I understand. Shit happens, and it's hard to keep up. But that doesn't mean you get to revisit the start of fifth year and ignore your best mates, alright?"

Imogen furrowed her brow, shifting uncomfortably. "F – fifth year?"

"Uh, yeah," he remarked, "you went through this weird … quiet phase."

She spread her palms. "Care to elaborate?" she asked, her voice a notch higher than it usually was.

Gus shot her a confused look. "What, you don't remember? For, like,  _three months,_ you barely talked to anyone… didn't eat… we were bloody worried, I can tell you that. James nearly wrote your mum and dad a few million times."

Imogen felt ill, but at the same time oddly touched. That cold, dark time in her life – summer of forth year, beginning of fifth – when she'd been consumed by awful rage, reared its ugly head, turning her stomach. It was funny, she thought; usually anger was hot, but it seemed that grief turned it to ice. Her days had been spent in what seemed like endless grey hues; breakfast, lessons, lunch, lessons, dinner, bed. Each and all of these were endured only by the singular thought of revenge – it had kept her bones strong, in those months, and her heart beating when it seemed like nothing else could.

Revenge was impermanence, though. Temporary. It fuelled her for a while and then went out in the few seconds it had taken for James to wrestle her away from pursuing Lucius Malfoy, as if he'd been blowing out a candle rather than pushing her into an empty classroom.

She'd never seen James angrier. Maybe that's what had snapped her out of it. Taken that cold thing in her spine and turned on the light.

The thought that her mates had noticed, and been concerned, warmed her to the core. Perhaps that was awfully selfish of her, but Imogen found tension melting from her back anyway. She met Gus' eyes, smiling tightly but genuinely.

"Would it help if I said I was sorry?"

Gus raised an eyebrow, his gaze searching her expression. Wordlessly, he pulled her into one of his frequent and warm hugs, patting her on the back. "'Course it would, mate," he said, as if she was being utterly ridiculous. "What's gotten into you?"

"Oh, you know." She mumbled into his shoulder. "Drugs. I'm on crack, didn't you know?"

Said shoulder shook with the force of his laughter. Her head jiggled, and she pulled back. "You have the cheekbones for it."

Imogen gasped in mock delight. "Why  _thank_ you, dearest!"

"Welcome, slag."

"Prick."

"Hello, minions," Marlene greeted, accompanied by all her airs and graces. She slid into the seat opposite, dark purple lips pulled into a smirk.

"Nice lipstick," Imogen commented, "it's very…  _I killed a man._ "

Marlene gasped, flattening her palm to her chest. "Exactly what I was going for, Immy darling."

Gus grinned. "Which poor bloke will you be frightening the life out of tonight, then?"

"None, actually," she replied breezily, "aim of the game is to feel powerful, have people admire my beauty, and then go straight to bed."

Imogen nodded. "A noble task."

"But of course. Lipstick makes me invincible."

"I can never pull off a good  _red._ " Gus sighed, chewing his lip pensively.

She laughed in her low, husky manner, grabbing the plate in front of her. She began to pile it high with leafy greens, meat and potato. "What topic of conversation did I rudely interrupt this time, then?" asked Marlene, inspecting her cutlery for spots.

"We were talking about the Halloween Ball, actually," Gus said smoothly, "I reckon I'll get my dad to send some of his old dress robes over, save me the trouble of a Hogsmeade trip."

Imogen started. "Blimey," she exclaimed, "I hadn't even thought of robes, yet."

Marlene eyed her up and down. "Wear grey this year." she said, simply.

Imogen gave her a baffled grin, reaching over to pour herself a large glass of water. "Yes, oh mistress." she snarked, and downed the whole thing in one.

"It'd look good on you!" she insisted. "And I don't mean slate grey, either. A nice light shade, backless,  _ooh_ long sleeved…" she trailed off, smiling faintly. "I'm going to make you so  _hot,_ Immy."

"Backless?" Imogen interjected nervously. "Why backless? Does my back have to be exposed? I don't have wings."

"That sounds like something a winged person would say."

"Shut up, King."

"Acting quite  _suss_ there, Waters." Gus began to pat her lightly on the back, prodding at her shoulder blades. "Are you  _sure?_ Come to think of it, you  _are_ a bird…"

Marlene threw a piece of chicken at him and he withdrew, grinning as he picked it from his collar. "You have a  _nice_  back," she said, "all smooth and pale. It'll look good, I promise."

Her hand flew to her shoulders self-consciously. "Have you been perving on my bloody  _back,_ McKinnon?"

"'Course not. You've got a nice bum, too."

" _Who's_ got a nice bum?" Remus asked hesitantly, sitting down next to Imogen.

"Waters," Gus replied, "apparently."

"I've been doing yoga." Imogen informed them all, proudly. "I can lick the bottom of my foot."

" _Euch_."

"Immy, that's disgusting…"

" _Why_ would you want to do that?"

"It's not a hobby! I just  _can_ do it, that's all!" Imogen protested.

"So long as you never actually  _do_ it…" Marlene sniped, raising her eyebrows.

She scowled, pointing an accusing finger at her friend. "I know for a  _fact_ that you've licked worse –" she began to say, but was interrupted by the seventh-year Hufflepuff girl who promptly let loose an anguished cry, and sprinted from the Great Hall.

Imogen recognised her as Elspeth Browning, a previous flame of Samantha's. They'd dated briefly over the summer, she knew, from Sammy's letters, but had called it quits just after school started up again. She searched the crowd for the Ravenclaw now, and spotted her rising from her seat to follow Browning out of the hall.

"What was all that about?" Marlene asked.

James dropped into the seat beside her, expression wan. "Her mum's been attacked for supporting muggleborns," he reported, tiredly, "Dumbledore asked me to give the Hufflepuff prefect some warning."

"Shite," Imogen whispered, "is her mum – ?"

"Dead." James replied.

"Bloody hell. She got any other family?"

"Yeah, some aunts and uncles. She's a cousin who finished school last year, I'm supposing she'll stay with them."

"Wasn't she the bird Sammy was seeing over the summer?" Gus chimed in.

" _Secretly,_  yes," Imogen reminded him, acidly.

Remus put down his pumpkin juice. "I didn't know Sammy was a lesbian," he remarked. Then, with a worried expression, "she won't be upset that we know?"

Gus shook his head. "No, she's not bothered. Her parents know, and a few others. Just doesn't advertise it. I reckon Browning was the one who was keeping it under wraps…"

"Sammy's not gay." Imogen said.

"What?"

"Sammy doesn't just like girls. She likes… everything. Pan-something, I think she called it."

"She likes pans?" James asked incredulously.

Marlene whacked him across the back of the skull. " _Honestly,_ Potter. Prefect and Quidditch Captain, but apparently not one brain cell in there to show for it. Pansexual is the word you're looking for, darling," she said to Imogen, "it means she is attracted to persons of any gender or sexual identity."

Remus chuckled, suddenly. "That makes sense," he mused, "she doesn't discriminate."

"I reckon she's got the right idea," said Imogen, "no reason to narrow your horizons. Lots of beautiful people out there to snog, so little time."

"People are  _hot,_ " Marlene sighed, "girls, boys,  _everything._ "

"There's a difference between being pan-whatsit and just wanting to climb everyone's tree, McKinnon," Imogen pointed out.

Her friend sent her a cool look, purple lips pursed. "Free love, Waters," she said coyly, "look it up."

Sirius, who had arrived just in time to hear Marlene's last words, grinned widely. "The definition has a little picture of my face next to it," he added, clapping James on the back.

"Oh, we know  _all_ about your free lovin', Black." she retorted, as he slid into the seat next to her.

"The whole bloody  _castle_  knows." Remus pointed out, holding up his hand for a high five.

Imogen delivered. " _Swerved_ ," she sang, throwing up deuces, "like a  _nerd._ "

Sirius flicked his eyes up in an exaggerated roll, groaning. "Put the gang signs away, you mad bird."

She lowered her hands with a pout. "He's so mean to me," she told Remus, who grimaced sympathetically.

"A bully." he agreed.

"Alright, you twats," Sirius interrupted, "calm down."

Gus planted his elbows, rather loudly, on the table. "Did you hear about Elspeth Browning?"

He frowned. "Yeah. Bloody pity, that is. She's a nice girl."

Imogen felt all merriment flood from her veins, replaced only by guilt and that too-familiar, burning anger. How quickly had that poor girl's face vanished from her mind in place of her friends' antics? One joke, it seemed, was all it took for her to forget her compassion. "You knew her?"

Sirius shrugged. "Sort of," he told them, "met her at one of Sluggie's parties. Helped me hide from Tatiana Parkinson, you know."

"I think I remember –" James recalled, screwing up his nose, "didn't she put a Disillusionment Charm on you?"

"Yep. Impressive bit of magic, that was."

They all fell silent, remembering Elspeth's horror-stricken expression as she'd stumbled from the Hufflepuff table, short blonde hair bobbing as she ran.

Imogen sucked in a deep breath through her nose. "I hate them," she said quietly, "I  _hate –_ "

Remus' hand came up to squeeze her shoulder, but it was Sirius who spoke first, "me too, Waters."

He reached across the table to grab her hand, a warm, friendly smile gracing his handsome features. "Me too."

*.*

They were all traipsing back from dinner, Imogen for once heading straight to the common room, when Sirius tapped her on the shoulder. She turned to look at him.

"A minute?" he asked, jerking his head to the side.

They stopped on the stairs. "Yeah?" she asked, trying to appear nonchalant.  _Friendly._

"Earlier today," he begins, "I shouldn't have – you were going through a rough time and I –"

"Hit on me?"

" _Flirted._ A bit. I wasn't serious, Waters.  _It_ wasn't serious." he told her, and she grinned past the sting it brought.

" _What?_ " she demanded. "Are you telling me Sirius isn't your real name?"

"Oh, merlin –"

"Years, you fooled me!" she cried. "YEARS."

"Waters –"

" _Lies!_ You sit on a  _throne_ of  _lies –_ "

Her exclamations were cut off by his hand, warm and dry, over her mouth. "You're the oddest girl I know," he chuckled, "and that includes Evans."

She gave a particularly expressive eye-roll, poking him in the stomach to let her go. Once un-muzzled, she said, "and you're the strangest bloke, including James."

"Oi."

"'S true. Anyway," she said breezily, turning to climb up the stairs, "it's part of your charm. G'night, Black."

"Night, Waters." he replied, stowing his hands in his pockets. "Tell the others I'm heading off for a smoke. I'll be up in a mo."

"Righto."

It was only hours later, lying in the dark with Gengy curled up in her arms, did Imogen dare to ponder on the ache that his words –  _it wasn't serious –_ had brought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was actually written by Monday of last week, but in keeping with schedule I kept it patiently off the internet. Ahead of schedule. Me. I know.
> 
> As usual, I'd love to hear what any of you think in the way of constructive criticism, Imogen herself, and suggestions. It'd also be cool just to hear what parts of the chapter you liked/didn't like.
> 
> In reference to Sammy's pansexuality: she's not going to be a background character, in case anyone's worried. She plays a larger role later on, but I unfortunately had to neglect her a bit in favour of the Selwyn plotline. Also - any complaints about my representation of pansexuality are welcome, but please remember that my opinion is not the same as James' or Remus' or anyone else's opinions in this fanfic. So calling me the worst person in the world because a fictional character is misinformed about the sexuality spectrum is... ill advised.
> 
> Not that I'm not quite sure all of you in the MWPP fandom are lovely.
> 
> Next up on 'E Pluribus, Unum', a little bit more about Imogen's history is revealed, and the Defence Club expands by one member.


	7. Nudie Rudie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imogen is faced with an encounter most confronting, and a little more of her past is revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry that this is late!! I just couldn't seem to get this chapter right. I'm none to pleased with it, I'll be honest. I'm viewing this as kind of a filler... sorry.

_ Imogen Waters is fourteen years old, watching the sleek sheet of Lucius Malfoy’s hair as he glides down the corridor like a shark, cold and dead-eyed. Two cronies – Knott and Avery, she thinks – flank either side of him, but she doesn’t care. _

_ Her wand is gripped tight in her sweaty palm. Imogen follows, a dark sort of fury clenching around her spine. She is cold. She is angry. She is vengeful. _

_ Lucius stops a moment, reading a piece of parchment, and waves his two friends on. Imogen grins like something empty – raises her wand with the most awful word on her lips –  _ crucio –

_ And then someone’s arm is around her waist and their fingers digging into her mouth. She fights them, viciously, sinking her teeth against the offending appendages and  _ s c r e a m i n g,  _but she is hauled into the empty classroom she stood beside and then James is slamming the door shut behind them, eyes wild._

_ He yells. She cries. His face morphs into her little brother’s, then Terence’s, and then there is blood all over her hands that she can’t seem to wash out, and Sirius is handing her soap with a sneer. _

_ “Unforgivable,” he hisses, and Imogen screams. _

*.*

She awoke with an anguished cry; sweat plastering her hair to her scalp and legs tangled in the sheets. She was still weeping, her cheeks stained with tears, and she tasted blood on her tongue. The taste of it was thick, cloying, metallic.

Imogen clamped a hand over her mouth, scrambling into a sitting position. She tried to stifle her cries into whimpers, but they poured from her mouth like a horrid froth, broken and raw. Sobs spasmed up her spine, wracking her body until she doubled up. She squeezed her eyes shut as they took her over like a tidal wave, wrenching sounds of terror and heartbreak from – what seemed like – the very guts of her.

“Immy?” asked a voice, and then her curtains were pulled aside and Lily clambered into her bed. She wound her arms around Imogen’s middle, tucking her to her side with practised ease. “Immy, it’s OK – just a dream –”

Imogen pressed her mouth against Lily’s shoulder. Her nails bit into the other girl’s skin, anchors ripping against sandy depths. “Henry –” she choked. “Henry, oh Merlin –”

“Ssh,” Lily whispered, smoothing back Imogen’s damp curls from her forehead, “it was a nightmare. You’re alright now.”

*.*

Dawn broke, and Imogen hadn’t slept a wink. At five forty-five, she prodded Lily awake.

“I’m going for a shower. D’you have the prefect bathroom password?”

“ _Rancoricullis_ ,” mumbled Lily, dragging herself into a sitting position. “Don’t suppose you want me to come with you?”

“Go back to sleep.” said Imogen, as way of answer, and pecked her friend on the cheek. “Thanks, Lils.”

“Mmmrrflegh,”

She smiled briefly, pulling on her dressing gown and stuffing a bag full of her robes. Imogen shoved her feet into a pair of oversized bunny slippers, pulling her hair back into a tight – albeit bushy – ponytail. Her wand was tucked into the pocket of her pyjamas (the embarrassingly pink and rabbit themed ones she’d had to put on after her other pair was stained with sweat).

Giving the dormitory a look-over, she surmised that the others were all snoozing peacefully away, none the wiser to her night terrors. Or, maybe, they were just too polite to make a fuss. She reckoned Marlene would figure it out. She’d probably take one look at her puffy eyes, downturned lips, and suggest they skip class to drink red wine and talk about boys. Marlene was perceptive that way. James would take only a little while longer – being a bit self-centred on the odd occasion – and would seek to solve her problems through the magical power of hugs. Bone-crushing, they were, but she had yet to come out of one unsmiling.

Imogen hurried down the stairs to the common room, hideously conscious of the  _pat pat squeak_ her slippers made. Terribly regretting her decision to venture outside the dormitory in  _this_ get-up (she could just imagine the twin smirks on James’ and Sirius’ faces if they ever found out), Imogen guessed that she had until about seven o’clock to have a bath and get dressed before anyone went into the prefect’s bathroom. Aside from others seeing her naked, she’d get Lily into trouble for giving up the password. And Merlin knew how terribly Lily handled detentions.

(However, one must note that Lily Evans was never adverse to a spot of troublemaking. On more than one occasion, she has helped Imogen Waters and Marlene McKinnon pull off a few devious stunts, and has hexed more than one Slytherin. The fact of the matter was, Lily Evans handled pranks quite well. It’s getting caught she never could deal with.)

Imogen shivered. Her slippers and pyjamas were nothing against the morning bite of September, and the chilly air seeped through thin cotton with ease. Despite this, the fresh air came as a welcome distraction for Imogen, who felt half-awake.

The events of her nightmare were like dark, brackish waters swirling in her lungs. Stifling. Drowning. Imogen was well-versed in the aftermath of an awful dream – she knew exactly how harrowing they could be, how haunting. She hadn’t had one of that calibre in a long, long time, but could still recall the way they sapped her energy. Fifth year, particularly before January, she’d counted herself lucky if she managed to snatch more than an hour’s sleep each night.

Imogen tugged her dressing gown tighter around her frame, walking briskly down the deserted corridors. It was still pitch black outside, probably would be until about seven anyway, and the only light to see by was sourced from torchlight. It cast eerie shadows on the stone walls, licking up them like ghostly, persistent fingers.

She’d said her brother’s name last night.  _Henry._

The first time since his death. She could still see his face – his poor little face, white and still, streaked with blood. Eyes wide open. Burning blue. Dark hair like his mum, blue eyes like his dad. Freckles like Imogen. The sweetest little boy she’d ever known, and he’d died crying for his big sister, a wand flashing through the air like an axe upon his throat.

Imogen wrenched her head to the side, stopped. She let out a shaky exhale, let it rattle through her until that old fragility, that weakness, was purged. She stood there in the corridor, swaying, eyes closed. Her fingers gripped the fabric of her dressing gown. They were slick with sweat again. Her heart thundered in her chest.

It was then that she heard it.

Laughter. Low and smug and calculating, she’d have recognised that self-satisfied chuckle anywhere.  _Mulciber._ He was some distance ahead, probably round a corner, and no doubt had a few of his ‘mates’ with him.

Imogen shrugged off her dressing gown and her slippers, raised her wand in front of her. She had time to prepare, and tripping over a pair of oversized footwear of the bunny persuasion while one of the Pureblood groupies was there to see it was  _not_ her idea of a fun time. She approached slowly, jaw clenched.

“… out and about at  _this time,_ halfblood?” said Mulciber snidely, and Imogen flattened herself to the closest wall, a  _protego_ already on her lips.

“L – leave me alone,” another voice whispered. It was clearly female, and clearly terrified.

A chuckle rang around the corridor. “ _Silencio’s_ worn off,” someone commented. Not Mulciber. Another girl.

Imogen’s breath caught as she recognised the arrogant drawl; Bellatrix Black. Sirius’ bitch cousin. She bit her tongue. Whoever they were harassing –  _torturing –_ was in some deep, deep shite if  _Bellatrix bloody Black_ was there as well. A seventh year, a Death Eater in the making.  _Fuck._

She adjusted her grip on her wand. Imogen knew she had something of an advantage, here; she could disarm Bellatrix,  _stupefy_ Mulciber, no problem. But there was always a chance something could go wrong, and she didn’t want to be in a vulnerable position in front of a sadist like Bellatrix.

She leaned against a corner, peeked round it – and froze.

Lying crumpled on the floor, her skin ashen, was Mary MacDonald. She was clutching her wand arm to her chest – broken, Imogen gathered – and her face was stained with tears. There was no discernible blood, which was some kind of relief.

The second shock came with a hand on her shoulder.

Imogen was pulled back round the corner roughly, but twisted and had her wand against the other person’s neck in seconds.

Lily put a finger to her lips, gesturing for her to lower her wand. “Are you insane?” she mouthed.

Imogen shook her head. “ _Cover me_ ,” she hissed, and then she was striding forward, wand outstretched and shoulders squared.

Bellatrix was the first to notice. “Waters – ” she growled, but the  _expelliarmus_ hit her square in the chest, and Imogen caught her wand with ease.

A side-step of Mulciber’s nasty stinging hex, twist, movement through the elbow and wrist –  _stupefy –_ he went down heavily, his wand rolling. Bellatrix snatched it up. “ _Petrificus totalus!_ ” she shrieked.

Imogen ducked, but there was no need to when Lily’s shield charm wrenched itself from the stone floor. The spell bounced back to the Slytherin – she dodged with effortless grace, hissing.

“Go back to your dungeons, Black.” Lily instructed, stone-faced. “You’ve had your fun.”

Bellatrix’s pretty features contorted into a snarl. Her lip curled back as she gnashed her teeth, a horrible, sickly-sweet giggle slipping from her tongue. “Don’t  _you_ tell me what to do,” she simpered, “filthy mudblood –”

“ _Fuck_ you, bitch!” Imogen barked. If it weren’t for Lily’s exceptionally powerful shield charm (something she suspected had as much to with keeping her  _in_ as well as keeping Bellatrix  _out_ ), she’d have knocked the Slytherin off her feet in seconds.

“You wish, Waters. I wouldn’t touch a dirty blood traitor if it saved my  _life_.” Bellatrix replied shrilly,  _dangerously,_ her pitch black eyes scanning the shield. Imogen knew she was looking for weak spots, a chink in the armour. Her wand burned hot, reacting to its owner’s harsh gaze.

“Both of you, cool it,” ordered Lily, “we can avoid turning this into something bigger than it needs to be if you just let us get Mary and  _go._ ”

Bellatrix’s returning smile was nothing short of wild – teeth bared, eyes brimming with insanity – and she tilted her head, speaking to Lily but staring, it seemed, straight into Imogen’s bones. Those awful, flat-dark eyes were like hooks in her flesh. “It’s already  _something bigger,_ ” she said, her voice calm and quiet, “and you can’t ever stop it.” She retreated slowly, levitated Mulciber with a flick of his wand. “I’ll be coming for what’s mine, Waters. Watch yourself.”

And with that, she left, Mulciber’s unconscious body bobbing behind her.

Once the click of Bellatrix’s heels subsided, and they were sure she was gone, Lily expanded the shield to include Mary.

She was barely awake, struggling feebly. “Hurts,” she moaned. “Need to go –”

“Mary?” Lily said loudly, tilting the blonde’s chin this way and that, “Mary, it’s Lily Evans and Imogen Waters. We’re going to take you to Madame Pomfrey, alright?”

“Li – ly,”

“Yeah, Mary. Can you stand?” asked Lily.

Mary nodded. Her eyes fluttered open. “I feel sick,” she whispered, slowly pulling herself up.

Lily ripped a strip of material from her nightgown, transfigured it into a makeshift sling. She tied it round Mary’s broken arm, then her neck. “I know, love,” she said in a matronly fashion, “it’s the pain.”

Imogen clutched her by the forearm as Mary staggered, muttering a quick relieving charm. The blonde’s features relaxed, marginally. “Did they use dark magic on you?” asked Imogen, somewhat more curtly than she’d wanted.

“ _Immy._ ”

“We need to know sooner rather than later, Lils.”

Mary started to cry, her head dropping onto Imogen’s shoulder. “Imperius.” she admitted, brokenly.

Imogen swore. “Do you remember –”

Lily cut her short. “That’s  _enough,_ ” she scolded, “it’s alright, Mary. You don’t have to say anything.” She glared at Imogen over her head.

She frowned. The best course of action would be to get as much recounting of the event as possible before they slipped from Mary’s head, but Lily gave a pointed glance towards the sobbing girl, and she relented. Imogen looked away, annoyed. Mary’s tears were beginning to soak her pyjamas, and she raised a hand automatically to comb her fingers through her hair.

“Hospital Wing, then.” Lily said. Grunting, she wrapped her arm about Mary’s waist.

“Yeah,” replied Imogen, and began to walk her friend back down the corridor.

*.*

“Anton Mulciber and Bellatrix Black.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“That is a very serious accu –”

“I’ve got Black’s wand, Professor.” Imogen deposited it on the desk between her and the Gryffindor head of house, irate. “What more evidence do you need?”

Lily shot her a warning glance. McGonagall laced her fingers together. “I’m simply warning you.”

“I  _know_  they’re dangerous –”

“Forgive me, Miss Waters, but I do not share the sentiment!” McGonagall snapped, suddenly. Her nostrils flared, and she continued, “as Miss Evans here has informed me, you were about to go up against them on your  _own._ That does not strike me as the actions of someone who is well aware of the dangers that Mulciber and Black pose.”

Imogen’s fingers tightened on the desk before her. There was a slow-burning rage, boiling in her gut, and she grit her teeth to stop from shouting. “Was I supposed to just leave Mary with them?”

“You were supposed to be careful, Miss Waters.”

“ _Careful_ doesn’t stop a bloody Death Eater.”

“Immy,  _don’t_ –”

“Why are you siding with her?” Imogen demanded, rounding on Lily. She was breathing heavily, curls slipping out of her ponytail to cloud around her eyes. “You saw them – you saw what they were doing! They broke her fucking  _arm_  –”

“That is  _quite enough,_ Miss Waters,” McGonagall broke in, furiously, “I’ll thank you to watch your tone. We’re all in the same boat here.”

Imogen begged to differ, but kept her mouth shut. “Fine.” she spat. Her chair scraped back on the stone floor gratingly. “I’m going to get ready.”

“Miss Waters, I must ask you to remain seated –”

“And  _I,_ ” she barked, “am saying  _no._ ”

She stalked out of McGonagall’s office, slamming the door shut on Lily’s pleas for her to stay. She burst into the corridor loudly. Two milkmaids sitting in their pastoral theme tutted, to which she muttered a rude  _bugger off._ The rest of the paintings left her alone.

Imogen fumed quietly, ignoring the few students who were awake at quarter past six in the morning, her sights set on the prefects’ bathroom. They stared as she went by – presumably because nobody had ever seen someone  _that_ angry dressed in pyjamas quite  _that_ shade of bright pink, complete with the fluffy bunny slippers she’d retrieved on her way to the Hospital Wing, and an even fluffier dressing gown.

She was so angry, so enraged, that when Frank Longbottom stuttered out a surprised “hiya, Waters” on his way down to an early breakfast, she threatened to curse his ears off.

Rather vehemently. Upon hindsight, Imogen would decide that the hand gestures were quite unnecessary. She also decided that, for a Head Boy and a Gryffindor, Longbottom was rather quick to haul arse in the opposite direction when at the bad end of a wand.

_ Or maybe,  _ a nasty little voice said,  _he’d rather not be near a sixteen year old who can’t control her own temper._

Imogen told the voice to mind it’s own damn business, ignoring the rather glaringly obvious fact that it was, technically,  _her_ voice. Instead, she marched on to the prefect’s bathrooms, barked out the password and stabbed her middle fingers viciously at Moaning Myrtle, prompting the ghost to make a dramatic exit via the toilets.

Once the place was deserted, her pyjamas were discarded, her bag set up next to the monstrous bathtub she so favoured, and her favourite taps turned on.

Soon, Imogen floated on her back in water so hot it almost burned, walled in by towering stacks of lavender-scented bubbles that nearly reached the ceiling. They were so thick that she could see the distinct shape of herself metres above her, an indent in the purple froth.

Lily Evans, she decided, could suck a massive  _cock._ As could Professor McGonagall.

Where did they get off, anyway? Telling her to  _be careful_ when Mary was being fucking  _tortured?_ They were all in Gryffindor, for Merlin’s sakes –  _brave at heart,_ her sweet bloodybehind. McGonagall was perfectly content to sit behind her desk and overlook the fact that two students had broken another’s arm, apparently, and Lily – who was supposed to want to be an auror – would rather play by the rules than do the  _right bloody thing._

She seethed, blowing harshly through her nostrils. How could they let the Slytherins get away with this? The both of them – Lily and McGonagall – had been witness, as well as Imogen herself  _and_ Madame Pomfrey, to Mary’s injuries. They’d all seen Mary trying to bite back tears as the bones of her arm knitted themselves into place. The pallor of her skin was stuck in Imogen’s head – as was her bare back, mottled black and blue where Bellatrix and Mulciber had exercised their sadism.

The memory left Imogen’s blood boiling; once again, she asked herself,  _how_ could both the Gryffindor prefect and the head of house let this slide?

_ I’ll be coming for what’s mine,  _ Bellatrix had warned. She’d be wanting her wand back, obviously. McGonagall would make sure she got it, but Imogen briefly entertained the idea of somehow lifting it from her office: lure Bellatrix into a duel, burn her to a –

“Waters?”

Imogen yelped and sank neck-deep into the water, just in time for James Potter’s head to peep round the edge of her bubbles. He was already dressed and ready, the twit, with his hair artfully mussed and tie hanging loose around his neck.

“ _Bloody hell_ you prat! I’m naked!” she squawked, scooping the froth around her.

His hand slapped over his glasses. “Fuck – sorry – could’ve  _mentioned_  that,” he accused.

“Oh, sorry,” she said sarcastically, “I forgot I’m not supposed to bathe in the nude.”

“Damn right you’re not!” James said, stricken. “Bloody harlot.”

“ _Oi._ ” And then, frowning, “how did you know I was in here?”

A pause, in which the part of his jaw that was visible from his hand worked furiously. “Er, Longbottom saw you were on the warpath, and he told me.”

“How did  _Frank_ know I was here, then?”

“Waters,” James sighed, “We’ve been best mates since we were eleven. You spend at  _least_ three weeks of your summers at my house. I’ve been in your  _knickers –_ ”

“ _Oi –_ ”

“ – not  _literally_ , bloody hell. I’ve been in the general vicinity of your knickers, then.”

She groaned. “So’s most of the castle, by that logic.”

“Alright, your sexual misdemeanours aside –”

“Bugger off –”

“The point is, Frank didn’t have to tell me. I know a fair bit about you, if you hadn’t noticed.”

She thought back to her nightmare, to fifth year, how his expression had twisted into something foreign in his anger and his fear. Imogen blew out a harried breath. “Right. Of course.  _Why_ are you interrupting my much-needed soaking time, then?”

“Because you’re my mate, and I heard what happened with Mary.”

“Oh,” Imogen grumbled. She slipped several inches further into the water. “Want to help me ambush Bellatrix Black?”

“Bloody hell, no, she’s a raving lunatic.” A shudder passed through him. “I’ll take Mulciber, he’s easy.”

She snorted. “I got him with a  _stupefy._  Barely had to look.”

“’Atta girl.” James said, proudly. He grinned in her general direction, one hand still hovering in front of his glasses.

“Thanks.” She sighed. “I’m covered now, you great prat. You can look.”

“I know. I’ve been peeking for the last few minutes.”

“ _James._ ”

“Kidding, kidding,” he tutted, dropping the hand, “like I’d want to see  _you_ all nudie rudie.”

“Same to you, pal.” She shot back, laughing. The water, jostled, lapped at her collarbones. “You have the time?”

“Yeah… twenty to seven.”

Imogen scooped some of the bubbles to lather in her hair – multi-purpose as they were – and heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank  _merlin._ Thought I was going to be bloody late, didn’t I?”

James shook his head. “You’ve got  _zero_ concept of time, Waters. Evans said you got up at, what, quarter to six?”

She paused, mid-soaping. “You talked to Lily?” she asked, eyeing him critically. “You said  _Frank_ told you! And when can you talk to  _Lily_  without getting hexed?”

James froze, managing (quite remarkably) to look both sheepish and smug at the same time. “I wasn’t lying,” he said defensively, “… per say. Frank  _did_ tell me you were in a strop but Evans caught me just after.”

“Ugh,” groaned Imogen, as she slipped underneath the water. It was even hotter below the surface, scalding against her cheeks. She came up again after a moment, blinking the rivulets from her eyes, sucking deep breaths of the steamy air.

He raised his eyebrows at her. “Better?”

“Yep,” she replied, wiping her face, “much.”

There was a small pause. Fidgeting, James finally blurted, “this is weird.”

“ _So_ weird.”

“I’m watching you in the bath.”

“I know.”

“It’s like perving on my  _sister._ ”

“It’s like being perved on by my  _brother._ ”

“Padfoot’s going to string me up by my balls.”

“Pa – what?” Imogen spluttered.

James shot her a roguish grin. “Nothing, nothing.”

“ _James._ ”

“I said it was nothing!” he exclaimed, unconvincingly. Then, spreading his palms wide, “ _he_ wouldn’t mind seeing you all nudie rudie.”

She rolled her eyes, something sick lashing through her stomach. Maybe she’d spent too long in the hot water. “He definitely wouldn’t care for it, if that’s what you mean.”

He flashed his trademark Marauder’s grin – all teeth, all humour, all trouble – and shrugged, averting his eyes as she swam closer to the edge. He turned away and passed her a towel. “ _Sure_ , Waters.”

Imogen stepped out and charmed herself dry with her wand, perched atop her pile of clothes, wrapping errant locks of hair into the proffered towel. “What’s  _that_  supposed to mean?” she demanded, even though her gut told her not to push it, that whatever James had to say – it wasn’t what she really wanted to hear.

He shrugged again, still staring pointedly in the opposite direction, at the mermaid in the stained glass window. He seemed to pause for a moment, presumably offering a grin in return for all the simpers and hair-flicking. “There’s something brewing between you two,” said James conversationally – as if they were discussing the weather, and not her potential romantic entanglements, “has been for a while.”

Imogen paused, her fingers strangling her necktie as she tried to loop it around her collar. “What is?” she asked, sharply.

“Not – maybe not like  _that._ But you two are always giving each other these meaningful looks, like  _loads_ ,” James spun round, apparently forgetting that she might have been naked, his expression exasperated, “very soulful. And all those chats, after dinner? And –”

“We’re friends. He just –” she sighed, dropping her gaze to his feet. “He’s like me.”

James snorted. “That’s rubbish –”

“No, I – I  _meant,_ he wants to fight.”

“So do a lot of people, Waters.”

“He wants to fight like  _I_ do, though.”

She glanced up at him. James bit his lip, something regretful passing over his handsome features. He dragged one hand through his hair, tiredly, as if something was weighing him down. “I know.”

“It’s OK, James.” Imogen muttered sliding the towel from her hair. Her still-damp curls hung loosely around her shoulders, cold seeping through her shirt.

“Is it?” he asked, uncharacteristically sharp. “Merlin, Waters – you went up against  _Bellatrix Black_ today. If Evans hadn’t been there –” he broke off. “And – and Pads is picking fights with every bloody Slytherin in the school, which normally I’d be bloody applauding him for – but it’s eating him up. It’s eating him up and I don’t know how to stop it.”

“Oi,” she said quietly, towel hanging limply in her hand, “you stopped it with me, didn’t you? In fifth year? You stopped –” she swallowed over the lump in her throat, surged on, “me. You can help Sirius.”

He looked away, jaw clenched. James stood with shoulders hunched, arms crossed, his spine curved like gnarled branches. His hands clutched at his elbows almost desperately, seeking to ground himself. Imogen reached out, and they peeled away to tangle in her fingers instead. “Can you talk to him?” he asked.

“He’d rather listen to you, mate.” She replied softly.

He shook his head. “No, he knows you understand. He’ll talk to you – Imogen,” he implored, at her hesitation, “just, can you please?”

She smiled at him, squeezing his hand. “Alright, Potter. But you owe me.”

James scoffed half-heartedly. “Consider us even, for all those times you made me risk my neck getting you chocolate at  _all hours of the night_ when you were on your rags.”

“Oh,  _please._ Hardly risking your neck. You do worse shite than raiding the kitchens for no bloody reason at all.”

He eyed her, the beginnings of a grin dancing at the corners of his lips. “It is when it’s  _you_ waiting at the other end.”

She smacked him. “Cheeky twat.”

“Greedy bint.”

“Bastard!”

“Watch it, I’ll steal your knickers again –”

“ _Hey!_ ”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm sorry this chapter wasn't up to scratch. Next time's will be better, promise!
> 
> A few notes on this one: 
> 
> James and Imogen's friendship is explored a teensy bit. It's very much sibling-oriented, and I really had no intentions of making it an awkward-sexual-tension moment. At all. I wanted to put this scene in to kind of highlight that while they are utterly comfortable with each other, there are limits, and neither of them want to exceed those.
> 
> I've always loved the relationship between the Marauders, and I definitely think that some of Sirius' more self-destructive tendencies would have worried James immensely. 
> 
> Of course, Imogen doesn't realise this straight away. She's a bit ... introspective, would be a nice way of putting it, or at least I try to characterise her as such. Very caught up in her own affairs, and how things affect her - an example being how she jumps straight into heroics, expecting Lily to cover her no matter what. And while this is selfless in the sense that she puts herself in danger to save a fellow housemate, Imogen still doesn't give much thought to how her friends would feel if Bellatrix had ended up seriously harming her.
> 
> Next up on E Pluribus, Unum: the Defense Club gets a new member (as foretold), and problems with the Slytherins arise plentifully.


	8. The Secret Is Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus becomes increasingly conflicted when Professor Cumberstone assigns the Muggle Studies class to read the Diary of Anne Frank. A new member of the Defence Club marks their arrival. Imogen - dastardly fiend that she is - manages to worm her way out of her parent's wrath with the help of James and Remus, but of course overhears the plot rapidly thickening from a fairly squished hiding spot behind a tapestry. Chaos, she's sure, will ensue. As it always does. Typical, that is.

Imogen slipped into her usual seat by Sirius in Muggle Studies, her hair (for once) charmed neatly into loose waves, her makeup devoid of smudges, her uniform distinctly lacking in crumbs or stains.

For someone who had barely slept and managed an encounter with future Death Eaters before breakfast, she looked remarkably well put-together. Typical – when she had every excuse in the world to be rumpled, she chose _then_ to have a good hair day. Every other occasion, of course, she wasn’t so lucky.

“Waters.” Sirius greeted, pinching the bit of toast she had out of her hand.

She snatched it back before he could eat it and stuffed it into her mouth. “Mor-ffling,” she mumbled.

“Ladylike,” he commented drily.

Imogen swallowed. “Alert the church elders, I don’t give a fuck.”

He grinned. “Never thought you did.”

“Damn right.”

“Knew we were mates for a reason.”

“Presumptuous of you.”

He pulled a face, shooting out a hand to ruffle her curls into disarray. She ducked him, swatting wildly at his arm, but he managed to hook around her middle and give her a noogie. “Bint –” he grunted.

“ _Ngyah –_ ”

She tried to wiggle out of his grasp, but to no avail: Sirius fluffed her hair to horrendous heights, snickering away in his Marauder fashion as he did so. An elbow to his gut, and he let her go with an _oof,_ still laughing.

“I hate you,” said Imogen rancorously, trying to tug her locks back into place.

“No you don’t.”

“Yeah, I bloody _do._ ” she grumbled, as a particularly awful thicket fell into her eyes. “My hair was perfect. Beautiful. And now it’s ruined.”

“Nonsense. Birds are always trying to achieve the perfect sex hair look.” Sirius replied convincingly, but the effect was lessened once he grabbed a clump of her hair, a grimace winding its way upon his expression.

Imogen glared at him poutily. “This is _not_ what my sex hair looks like.”

“I’ll ask Diggory, shall I?” he retorted.

“ _Watch_ it,” said Imogen, planting her elbow on the desk to point at him warningly.

He held up his hands in an _I surrender_ gesture. “Sorry, sorry.” he muttered, eyebrows raised, in the way she’d have expected him to say _testy, testy._

“You should be,” she remarked, “I haven’t done any Nostril Stickers in a while.”

Sirius flinched, his hand jumping to his aquiline nose, memory no doubt flicking back to their third year when Imogen had performed the curse on him. “You enjoyed that too much,” he grumbled.

“And _you_ stole all my romance novels and handed them out to second years!”

He grinned and shrugged nonchalantly, dropping his hand back down to his desk. “Wouldn’t call that romance,” commented Sirius, “more like smut.”

“ _Shut up._ ”

“Oi, _you_ brought it up.”

Imogen glared. “The lesson’s starting soon,” was all she said, turning to her own workspace, “we should get our things ready.”

“OK,” Sirius said lightly, not at all heeding her words, “heard you tangled with one of my beloved cousins this morning.”

Imogen took parchment, ink and quills out of her bag, arranging them neatly atop her desk. “Er, yeah,” she said, scribbling _MS – Economics_ at the top of her scroll. “You do the homework?”

“Of bloody course not. Stop avoiding the subject.”

She shot another glare at him. He stared back benignly, loosening his tie. “I stunned Mulciber and took Bellatrix’s wand.” admitted Imogen with a gusty sigh.

Sirius let out a low, long whistle. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, and patted her on the back. “Brave of you.”

“Yeah, well. Gryffindor.” said Imogen casually. She fished out last lesson’s homework – a short paragraph on the Muggle system of voting – and slid it over to him. “Your own words, Black, if you please.”

“You’re a gem, you are,” he said gratefully, and began to copy her work. “Prongs said he caught you before breakfast?”

She swallowed. “Yup.”

“And…” Sirius paused, squinting at her introductory sentence. “What – oh. That’s a ‘b’,” he mumbled, “right.”

“And…?”

“Huh? Oh, sorry, love. I mean – Waters. Sorry. Um,” his eyes darted from her to his page, “what I wanted to say was, _and,_ is everything OK?”

Imogen tried not to blush. “I’m not your bloody Rosmerta, Sirius,” she teased, “and – yeah. Everything’s alright.”

“Bugger off.” Sirius laid down his quill, halfway through his opening statement. He examined her shrewdly through his fringe, brows furrowed in suspicion. “You sure?”

“ _Yes._ ” sighed Imogen, checking her watch. It was five whole minutes before the class was supposed to begin. Shite.

“Liar,” Sirius accused, “you and Evans are in the shits. And you went after bloody Bellatrix, you daft cow.”

“She’s all talk.” Imogen said darkly. “And how the bloody hell d’you know about Lily and me?”

He sighed. “Well, Evans was looking all distraught at breakfast and Moony, of course, being Moony, asked her what was wrong and she went all – ” here, Sirius propped his chin in his palm and fluttered his lashes, widening his eyes to doe-like proportions, “ – _oh, nothing Remus!_ – fake cheery as you like, and then Moony went –” a comically paternal expression, therein switching between the two imitations, rapid speed, “ – _are you sure_? – _oh yes, completely fine – you don’t look fine – but I am_ – and so on, so forth, until yours truly –” Sirius flexed his muscles and plastered on what he probably thought was a charming grin, “ – butted in with _shut up Evans and tell us what’s gotten into you._ ”

Imogen, whose eyebrows were almost at what appeared to be their holiday destination of her hairline, blinked. “That was…”

“Amazing? Talented? _Iconic?_ ”

“… The least accurate imitation of Lily I have _ever_ seen.”

Sirius looked quite hilariously insulted. “ _How_?” he demanded.

“Uh, for one, she is _not_ that goody goody.”

“She is to me.”

“Well, that’s probably because you’re _you._ Bloody _James_ is goody goody by your standards.”

“I –” Sirius paused, “Did you just say Bellatrix is _all talk_?”

Imogen busied herself with curling a lock of hair around her wand. “Er, yes?”

“That… is stupid.”

“Yeah,” Imogen mumbled, “she told me to _watch myself_.”

“Well.”

“Uhuh.”

“That’s worrying.”

She sighed, propping her chin on her folded arms. “D’you reckon she’ll follow up on it?”

Sirius eyed her, twirling the quill in nimble – yet rather twitchy – fingers. “Honestly?” he said, and rubbed the tip of his nose. “I think you should take her advice.”

“You reckon I should watch my back, then.”

“That is what I mean, yes.”

Imogen frowned. “Want to help me ambush her?” she asked hopefully.

He snorted. “Oh, love to. Highlight of my day, that. I’d be _thrilled_ to get obliterated by my dearest cousin…”

“Alright,” she said, “I get the point. Merlin.”

Sirius grimaced suddenly. “I don’t think you do, Waters.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you think you can take on Bellatrix.”

“I took her on fine this morning,” she retorted defensively.

“Evans stopped any duelling.” he reminded her. “You – you haven’t seen Bellatrix _properly_ mad. You’d not have been able to take her on. ’s not like you don’t stand a chance, OK? ’M just saying that she’s a bloody hard case.”

Imogen levelled him with a challenging kind of glare. The other students began to file in, chattering away, but she took no notice of them. She found herself, as she often did, utterly trapped by Sirius’ gaze. “So am I.”

“Not like she is, you’re not.”

“But you are?” she countered. “It’s alright for _you_ to be hexing Slytherins willy-nilly but not for me?”

His lips thinned. “That’s different. They deserve it.”

There was something in his tone that was both coldly foreign, at least to what Imogen knew of Sirius Black, and wholly familiar. A single-minded, dark determination, honed by grief and pain. “No they bloody don’t, Sirius,” she growled, “I’ve got mates in Slytherin, so’s Remus, so’s Gus, and you _know_ they don’t. Hell, _Marlene’s_ practically Slytherin –”

“Like shit she is!” barked Sirius. “She’s your friend –”

“She’s loyal, isn’t she? Ruthless? Slytherin doesn’t mean evil. It just means that when us Gryffs slam a door behind us, the Slytherins’d leave it open to make you close it for them. They’re – we’re not that different, alright?”

He cut his eyes at her, as if he knew about the _you of all people should know that_ on her tongue. She wasn’t about to give rise to it, though; it died on the edge of her lips. He held her gaze for a tight moment, then released a breath, and, as a result, most of the tension that had collected between them. “Fine,” he sighed, “I get it. Just – don’t go looking for Bellatrix, alright?”

Imogen was saved from making promises she couldn’t keep by Professor Cumberstone, whose punctuality had, apparently, not stuck as well as his almost hypnotic influence over the female students had.

“Sorry, sorry!” he announced breathlessly, sweeping into the room. His dark hair was adorably rumpled, robes fanning out behind him. “Late, I know. Terrible business with the – ah – well, me.”

The class laughed appreciatively and he gave a bashful smile, running one hand through his locks. “I hope you’ve all done the homework?”

Imogen smothered a wry grin as she head Sirius’ quill suddenly take up avid scratching, his mutterings of _bloody Waters_ , keeping her gaze fixed on Cumberstone. He glanced over the class, taking in their rather awkward silence. “Er. I’ll collect it at the end of class.”

He turned to the chalkboard, and, with the piece of white chalk he always seemed to have on him, wrote one word: _PERSECUTION._

She looked to her left. Marcus sat in his usual seat, straight-backed and stern. Per – se – cution, she sounded in her head, and wondered if he was doing the same.

Cumberstone stowed the chalk in his pocket and turned round to face them, clasping his hands together excitedly. “Persecution,” he said, “definition: hostility and ill-treatment, particularly due to race, political or religious beliefs. There are many differences between magical and non-magical persons – but in this,” a pause, “hatred, I suppose, runs deeper than expected.”

Alice Lightwood spoke up. “My dad says humanity’s all the same. We don’t like what we don’t know.”

Cumberstone nodded. “Fear of the other,” he said solemnly, “can anyone tell me what this is called?”

“Xenophobia,” Gloria Sawyers piped up, “sir.”

He smiled warmly at her; she tossed a smug glance in Imogen’s direction. Imogen caught it, chewed it, spat it back out. “Thank you, Miss Sawyers. Very apt. Now,” he spread his palms, pacing slowly and thoughtfully at the front of the class, “you’re all well aware of the tensions between purist ideology and pro-muggle ideology, correct?”

The class nodded, some murmuring agreements. Imogen said a firm “yes” quite clearly, ignoring the amused once-over Sirius gave her in response. Although, any smirk or eye-roll at her eagerness was squashed, immediately, by Marcus Selwyn’s voice.

“I do,” he said – not half as strongly or wilfully as Imogen; in fact, his tone was reluctant and quiet, more contemplative than anything – and yet, the air in the class went still.

“You do?” Cumberstone queried, raising his eyebrows with interest. Not surprise, although perhaps he was a little stunned.

Marcus nodded, head tilted down but icy blue eyes boring, it seemed, straight into his. He didn’t elaborate further. Cumberstone paused for but a moment, wherein the class strained to look round at the Selwyn heir, and then gave his own, rather jerky, nod. “Alright!” he said. “Er, in the Muggle world, persecution is quite an extensive issue. In fact, it’s possibly the biggest. Miss Waters – you’ve been quiet – any examples?”

Imogen tore her gaze from Marcus, whose profile was rigid and unmoving. “The Jewish have been scapegoats for, like, ever…” she started. “And basically any person of colour have been discriminated against.”

“What we’re focusing on here is persecution, though. Search your history, Miss Waters.”

“The Holocaust. The nineteen fifties, USA. Right now there’s the apartheid in South Africa. Er, and the Indigenous Australians are appealing to the government…” Imogen could tell her words meant nothing to some of the students, but Cumberstone was smiling warmly at her, and she halted – a little more uncertainly than she was used to – returning his grin.

“Exactly, Miss Waters. Five points should do it, I think.” He turned back to the board and scrawled her additions beneath his heading, this time in blue chalk.

Sirius clapped her on the back. “Cheers, swottie.”

Cumberstone finished writing. He turned back to them and, with a wave of his wand, sent a hardback text thudding to each of their desks. The covers were shiny, brand new, with black lettering against a white background.

“ _The Diary of Anne Frank_ ,” read Gloria Sawyers, “I’ve already read this, sir.”

“Then I expect your essay to be particularly enlightening,” said Cumberstone kindly, eliciting groans from several members of the class.

“What’s it about?” Sirius asked, ignoring the sole purpose of the novel’s back.

Gloria turned round in her seat, and for once her expression was without venom, a wholly pensive look in her eyes. “In the nineteen thirties and forties, this girl had to go into hiding because she was being prosecuted. For being Jewish, by this guy called Adolf Hitler. Basically he hated Jewish people and, well, convinced Germany to as well –”

“We know _that,_ Sawyers,” Alice said impatiently, “the Ministry helped sort that out.”

Gloria glared. “I’m giving some context, Lightwood,” she retorted, “ _any_ way. This girl writes a diary during the time she has to go into hiding. It’s good.”

“Is that it? We read about some bird’s love life when she’s …” Sirius flipped the book open to a page, “… _hiding,_ and then we read about it when she’s not?”

“ _No._ ” Gloria spat, before Cumberstone could intervene. “We can’t read it when she’s not hiding, you arse.”

Imogen might have defended said arse, but in that moment, she found (rather shockingly) that she was in something of an agreement with the other girl. Instead, she leaned back in her chair and frowned at him.

“Why not?”

“Because she bloody dies, doesn’t she? She dies in the camps.”

“They killed her?” Marcus spoke up, turning the book over in his hands.

Gloria looked at him, eyebrow raised. “What did you think, _Pureblood_?” she spat, tone laced with familiar poison. “They all just let them go in the end?”

Marcus sank lower in his seat, wintry eyes fixed on Anne Frank’s last memories. Imogen felt, suddenly, an ache like the one she did when Terence had first taken her hand – a longing, perhaps maternal, _definitely_ odd, to comfort. She stared at his furrowed brows, the way his hands twitched when the touched the pages, when they touched Anne’s first words to the world.

“That’s enough.” Cumberstone said. He was unusually stern. “It’s time for you to hand in your homework.”

 

*.*

 

Imogen and Sirius strolled down the halls to Transfiguration, silent. Sirius was reading Anne’s Diary, somehow weaving expertly through the opposing flow of students and tracing her prose with his gaze at the same time. His expression was absorbed, eyebrows drawn tightly in concentration.

Imogen was staring at the back of Marcus Selwyn’s head. The normally sleek shock of dark hair was distinctly rumpled at the nape, his collar tugged down to reveal the flushed skin of his neck. His head was bowed, though not in thought like Sirius’ – no, Marcus stared at the ground with the kind of nerves and urgency Imogen often saw in first years: a harried sort of look, a need to keep his gaze to the floor in an effort not to be noticed.

“I have to pee,” she said to Sirius, who mumbled something affirming that sounded like a _good luck_. She paused for a moment watching him veer off to the hallway leading to their class, then pulled out her wand.

She muttered a useful little spell – and Marcus’ book bag split at the seams, spilling textbooks and quills alike onto the floor. He stopped and crouched, repairing his bag quite effortlessly, piling his stuff back in with a curse.

Imogen darted a quick glance round: students were filing into their classes, the halls slowly emptying. She hurried forward, kneeling next to Marcus and grabbing a thick tome labelled _Potions for Potency._ “Hello, Marcus.” she said, perhaps a tad more ominously than she intended.

He scowled at her. “That was a new bag, Waters.”

“Uh,” she laughed nervously, “that’s nice. I’m sorry for your loss?”

Marcus sighed disgustedly, snatching the potions text off her. “What do you want?”

“Just checking in. Everything alright?”

He paused for a single moment. The movement was jittery. Fragile. Then, the sheets of ice were back up around his ears, shielding him from her. “You split my bag open to _chat?_ ”

Imogen peered at him. “You seemed pretty rattled in Muggle Studies.”

“I just don’t bloody want to read about _them._ ”

“You’re a terrible liar. And the whole Pureblood supremacist routine is getting tired, Marcus.”

He swallowed, angrily. “It’s not a routine. It’s a belief system based on facts and logic and ideology –”

“You ever heard of the Aryan race?” Imogen interrupted.

Marcus faltered. “N – no?”

She tapped Anne Frank’s Diary, which he held tightly in one hand. “That’s what Hitler wanted. Dunno if you ever learnt about that… he wanted a _perfect_ race – like, Pureblood, but instead of Muggleborns he hated Jews.”

His lips tightened. “Your point?” he asked, tersely.

“My point,” Imogen said, “is that what you just said – fact and ideology – is exactly what Hitler told Germany. And they killed an entire race of people because of it. Kids were murdered, or worked until they starved, or both. They were put into extermination camps. My point is, how long d’you think before your Lord Voldemort starts doing that? And how long before he decides Terence belongs in the same category?”

Marcus flinched back; a low blow, bringing in his brother. She knew that. But it was necessary. Imogen stood up, holding his stare. “See you later, yeah? After lunch?”

She’d made it halfway down the corridor before she heard his reply.

“Yeah.”

 

*.*

 

Imogen was, as usual, paired with Sammy for Charms. She was as quiet as usual, glossy dark hair flowing over one shoulder. There were dark circles under her eyes – a souvenir, perhaps, from her night consoling Elspeth Browning.

“So she’s… leaving?” Imogen asked cautiously, frowning in disbelief.

Sammy nodded. Her hands were folded carefully in her lap. “She doesn’t feel safe here anymore, I don’t think.”

“But – it’s safer than _out there_ –”

“Is it?”

“What d’you mean?”

“I mean…” Sammy lifted and lowered her shoulders resignedly. Not quite a shrug: Sammy wasn’t the type to be so indecisive – but it was of the shrug vicinity nonetheless. “What happened this morning. It doesn’t really seem like Hogwarts is protecting its students.”

“How did you know about that?” asked Imogen sharply.

Sammy waved a hand. “Gossip mill, of course. Poor Mary’s had to stay in the hospital wing; everyone’s pestering her so much.” She gave a little hiccup. “It’s almost funny – people are saying you took on Bellatrix Black!”

She started to laugh, but it died in her throat when she saw Imogen’s expression.

“ _Imogen –_ ”

“I’m not sorry.”

“Well you should be! You – _Imogen!_ ”

“Yeah, that’s my name,” she said dismally, “don’t bloody wear it out.”

Sammy pressed her lips together. “Why do you always do this?” she asked, quietly.

Imogen sighed. “I’ve had this speech before, alright? I can look after myself. I _am_ careful, if that’s what you’re bothered about, I _know_ how to handle this sort of thing and I _do_ know that it worries you!”

“It worries all of us, Imogen! You might not see it – but this morning, oh, James probably knew what happened, I suppose?” Imogen nodded, and Sammy went on. “He was worried _sick!_ I thought he was worried about Lily, but no. It was you. And Remus barely spoke to me all through Arithmancy, and _Sirius_ tried to take it out on every Slytherin in the castle – but you wouldn’t know that, would you? They don’t show you, Imogen, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt them.”

Imogen tugged a hand through her curls. “I didn’t –”

“Realise?” Sammy cut her off. “Think?”

“No. I s’pose not.”

“I know you feel like you have to play the hero, Imogen,” Sammy said, covering one of Imogen’s hands in both of hers, “but it’s only going to get you hurt.”

“It’s the right thing to do.”

She smiled, sadly. “And what happens after you get yourself killed? Lily loses her best friend, James loses a sister? Sirius goes _bonkers,_ of course… What happens to Gus? Me? Your family?”

“They’ll be safe,” Imogen whispered.

She shook her head. “The war won’t end with you. Stay alive, Imogen, and you’d save so many more.”

“I have to _try –_ ”

“You can do that without _killing yourself._ ” Sammy’s voice was unwavering, quiet and steely. “Be careful. Don’t go picking fights with Bellatrix Black, for Merlin’s sake. Save yourself for the real war, alright? Getting yourself picked off over petty squabbles is useless.”

Imogen squirmed in her seat, rubbing her nose. “I s’pose you’ve got a point,” she admitted, begrudgingly.

“I _definitely_ have a point.” Sammy said, patting her hand comfortingly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t rub it in.”

“I’m afraid I have to.”

Imogen groaned, dropping her head onto Sammy’s slim shoulder.

“Come on then. We should at least _try_ to make a start on the Charms work.”

She laughed. “And miss out on spreading _more_ cunnilingus rumours? No thank you. I think it’s time that Sawyers broadened her slandering horizons to lesbianism. Keep holding my hand, go on.”

Sammy’s shoulder shook with repressed giggles. “You’re mad, Immy.”

“I know.”

“Be a little less mad, though. It’s good for your health.”

Imogen smiled, nodding. “If you say so.”

 

*.*

 

“He’s late.”

“I know.”

“He’s _very_ late.”

“Yeah, Mar, you said.”

“He’s _half a bloody hour_ late.”

Imogen chose not to reply to that. Marlene was stalking up and down their little classroom, arms crossed and expression fierce. Her lips were pursed in a terrifying scowl, bright blue eyes ablaze.

Marlene was, Imogen thought, rather too bothered that Marcus was (as she’d put it) half a bloody hour late. But that was none of her business.

What she _did_ consider her business was sitting right next to her, his warmth leeching from his robes into hers, the faint scent of cigarette smoke lingering in the air. Sirius, the wanker, had skipped his class to poke his nose where it didn’t belong.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked, lowly in her ear.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You bloody _know_ why.”

“You’re mad at me an awful lot, Waters.”

“You’re a fucking _twat_ an awful lot, Black.”

Sirius let out a breath, leaning back. “I thought you were looking for Bellatrix.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“Well, no, not _really_ ,” he hissed sarcastically, “since you’re a member of a secret organisation that’s bloody training Purebloods to defend themselves!”

“ _Secret organisation?_ ” Imogen asked, and despite herself, a laugh bubbled up in her throat. “You’re off your bloody tree, you are. And trust me, Marcus could do with some help. He’s useless at Defence.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Marcus, is it?” he asked interestedly, in a sort of _oo-er_ tone. “Cosy, that is.”

She glared. “Bloody hell, can I not secretly tutor _any_ boys in defensive magic without you thinking I’m shagging them?”

Sirius grinned at her, leaning close. “’Course. Dunno about McKinnon, though.”

“She _is_ a bit worried, isn’t she?” Imogen murmured, watching as Marlene continued to stride back and forth across the classroom.

“In her own sort of way.”

“Marlene doesn’t get worried about boys,” she mused, “not really.”

“You think she likes him?” Sirius asked, incredulous. “Like, _really_?”

Imogen shrugged. “Dunno yet. Maybe. He’s bloody fit, of course. And she’s always liked that brooding forbidden thing – y’know, so she can crush their ego.”

“Ah. ’Course.”

“And Terence told me Marcus is always staring at her, so…”

Sirius didn’t appear surprised that she was on a first name basis with Selwyn the Younger. Then again, she supposed that he knew her well enough to surmise that she’d have covered her bases. Know thy enemy, and all that. Although as the weeks went by, Imogen was becoming less and less sure about Marcus being an enemy.

An utter twat, yes, and an idiot who romanticised neo-Nazi ideals, but she pitied him. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that he was questioning everything he’d ever been taught and, despite herself, she reckoned that having your parents die and then being sent to relatives who opposed any and all of your beliefs was pretty rough.

“Half the blokes in the castle stare at McKinnon.” Sirius shrugged and then glanced at her. “Not me though,” he added, rather unnecessarily.

“Uh. Alright.”

“I don’t see her that way.”

“I … I know?”

“You do?” he asked, a little crinkle forming between his eyebrows. She wanted to smooth it out.

“Well, yeah. She’s your mate. Like Lily is, or Sammy. Or,” Imogen said, swallowing, “or, me.”

Sirius stared at her. Not incredulously, not angrily – just stared. That curious stare again. He really was beautiful, Imogen noticed. Everything about him was just that. Even the frayed edges, she liked. Every little thing was, in its own way, beautiful – like how he always took her seriously. How he knew what it was like to want to fight. How he was warm against her, safe and secure.

Imogen didn’t want to kiss him. That wasn’t it. She wanted, she supposed, to rest her head on his shoulder and have no expectations, for once. No wandering hands, no weird tension. Something complete, and whole.

Sirius must have noticed; he smiled, hooking an arm around her neck to press a quick kiss to her temple. It was brief, soft, and _so_ not platonic. But it was nice.

Marlene, of course, chose that moment to pause in her tirade and glare poisonously at the figure emerging from the doorway. “Who’re _you?_ ” she spat. “Firsties can bugger off.”

Imogen hopped off the desk. “He’s with me,” she said, stepping between Terence and Marlene’s wrath.

She raised on perfectly plucked eyebrow, hands on her hips. “Who is he?”

He peeked round Imogen, scowling. She felt his hand slip into hers. “Terence Selwyn,” he declared stonily, “I’m Marcus’ brother.”

Marlene’s gaze dropped to the motion. “Oh,” she said, eyeing Imogen in a _you will tell me all_ sort of way, “sorry.”

Terence grumbled.

Imogen led him over to where Sirius sat, nudging him forward a bit to slide onto the table as well. “I didn’t get the chance to speak to your brother, pet.”

“ _Pet?_ ” Marlene muttered, and she threw her a silencing glance over one shoulder.

The little boy glared at Marlene. “He said you broke his bag so you could talk to him in riddles.”

Sirius snorted. “Sounds about right.”

She ignored him. “I didn’t –”

Terence shrugged. “Marcus gets annoyed when people start making sense.”

“Thanks, little’un.”

“ _Little’un?_ ”

“Shut up, Mar.”

Sirius was looking at Terence with a great deal of interest. “Is that all you’re here to tell us? That your brother’s an idiot? ’Cause we knew that already, mate.”

Terence frowned at him. “He’s not an idiot,” he said, ever-loyal, “he’s just confused at the moment.”

“He’s questioning everything he’s ever believed in,” Imogen interjected.

“How d’you know he’s questioning?”

“You saw him in class today, Sirius. Fairly obvious, don’t you reckon?”

“What was he doing in class?” Marlene asked, coming over to stand next to Imogen.

“We’re learning about the Holocaust. He was … surprised.” She said, lamely. It was difficult to get across – how could she describe to Marlene the shock on Marcus’ face, the way his thumb had rubbed across the spine of Anne’s Diary? She’d seen all his surety, all his righteous pride crumbling before her. How could she convey that?

Marlene bit her lip. “Is that why he’s not here now?” she asked Terence.

The boy shrugged again. “That’s not what I’m here about,” he said, “I don’t know where my brother is. I came about Mary.” His slim shoulders seemed to straighten, then, as did his spine, and he said – without tremor nor quake – “I’d like you to teach me how to fight.”

 

*.*

 

“Can we go? It’s cold.”

Imogen turned from coaxing McGonagall’s owl to smile apologetically at Remus, who did not look at all pleased. That was to be expected, though – he _did_ have James wrapped around him, shivering pathetically.

“Yeah, Gen. Bloody cold.” The Great and Victorious Quidditch Captain mumbled, teeth chattering.

“Just a few minutes more, I swear. She’s nearly let me have the letter.”

McGonagall’s owl hooted disdainfully in response. What Imogen assumed was a letter of complaint to her parents – _Miss Waters has, yet again, chosen to conduct herself in a manner that I, as Head of House, deem inappropriate_ – was tied to the bird’s leg. She was almost surprised that it didn’t just give the thing over in the first place; this was an old routine.

Imogen had intercepted a _lot_ of letters over her Hogwarts career. There was an art to it.

“C’mon,” she muttered soothingly, letting the owl pinch another treat from her fingers. “C’mon, now.”

The bird chewed, large round eyes fixed on hers. It blinked, slow and bored. “ _Hoo_ ,” it hooted.

Imogen scowled at it. “Please?”

“ _Hoo._ ”

“Fucking – _ow_ , don’t bloody bite me!”

“ _Hoo hoo._ ”

“I think it’s laughing at you, Gen.”

“Yes, thank you James!” Imogen bit out through gritted teeth. McGonagall’s owl ruffled its feathers in a smug sort of way, and, seemingly deciding that it had tortured her enough – extended its leg for her to take the letter.

She fed it another treat, albeit begrudgingly, and tucked the tightly-rolled bit of parchment inside her robes. It was thick, stained with ink – full to the bursting, no doubt, with extensive details of Imogen’s misdeeds. She turned to the others. “Did you talk to Peter?”

James nodded, teeth chattering. “He’ll be sending a returning owl with a very angry note from your mum,” he grinned, “letting ol’ Minnie know you’ll be appropriately punished come break time.”

Imogen grinned back, ushering them down the hallway. The Marauders each had their own skills: James and Sirius were mischief makers to the bones, Remus was handy at spellwork, and Peter could forge a note that mimicked your handwriting well enough to fool _you,_ in about two minutes flat. “Brilliant. I owe him one.”

“Careful,” Remus murmured absently, darting quick glances down the dark hallways, “he might cash in on that.”

James snorted. “Lifetime supply of Honeydukes, anyone?”

She snickered quietly, fingering the letter of complaint where it sat in the lining of her robes. “He bloody earned it. He’s faked about a million notes for me since we met.”

“Can you remember that time in Third Year?”

“Merlin,” Remus bit down on a laugh, “what was it? _Imogen has developed a strange Muggle disease in which she has become allergic to the ink used in your homework scrolls, and thus she cannot complete her issued tasks…_ ”

Imogen lit up her wand, dodging quickly down and back up the corridor to make sure the coast was clear. Seeing nobody treading the stone floors, she nodded to her mates. “Can’t believe Sluggy fell for that one,” she noted, grinning.

“You had to pretend to sneeze for _months._ ” James sighed nostalgically, ignoring a disgruntled Remus as he tried to stow his hands into the other boy’s cardigan pockets.

“Bloody – _get off_ –”

“I’m _cold._ ”

“And I’m filing for a restraining order if you don’t bloody get your mitts out of my crevices!”

“Would you _shut up?_ ” Imogen hissed, making _shushing_ motions. “I want to hear _nothing_ about your crevices.”

There was a pause. Then, “You’d listen if it was Padfoot’s crevices,” James mumbled into Remus’ unwilling shoulder.

She whipped round. “I won’t even deign that with a response,” she said, her tone too acidic to be lofty like she was aiming for, and flounced away.

Well, it was more of a _bop_ than a flounce. Your legs had to be significantly longer to pull off a flounce. Now Lily – _she_ could flounce. The bint. Imogen’s lips tightened at the thought of her best mate (title currently suspended) as she bopped away, leaving the two teenage boys to snicker in her midst.

She was getting quite a good head start, but as per usual, their lanky limbs made quick work of her very-much shorter ones.

“C’mon Gen,” James whined teasingly, “don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad!” She replied defensively. “Just astonished. At how ridiculous what you’re saying is.”

Remus scoffed out a _ha_. He managed it remarkably well, considering that he was still attempting to violently wriggle out of James’ grasp. “It’s not – _oi,_ can you _fuck off_ – it’s not ridiculous,” he started, “when you think about it from our perspective…”

“Bloody hell, I do _not_ want to think about things from your perspectives.”

“Just saying – you’ve been especially buddy buddy lately.”

James nodded. “All that eye sex.”

“ _What?_ ” Imogen tittered. “There’s no ‘eye sex’, mate.”

“And you disappear off with each other _all the time_ ,” James continued on as if she hadn’t spoken.

“He walks you to every class,”

“He’s just being nice –”

“Nearly killed Greene for commenting on your arse the other day,”

“Well – well he’s just saving me from objectification!”

“Uhuh. How d’you explain the several witnesses of your little – ah – _interlude_ the other week?”

Imogen skidded to a halt, staggering forward as the tall, muscular body of James and the significantly softer (probably because he was always swaddled in some sort of cardigan) body of Remus slammed into her back at once. “He was kidding around.” She said nervously. “Honestly, the wall thing is a – a joke, and, we were just egging each other on with the touching, uh –”

“Well _hang on_ just a bloody minute,” James gasped, spinning her around to face him, “there was no word of a wall or – or touching of the competitive sort!”

 _Shit._ “Then what were you, uh, talking about?”

“When he carried you in to the common room with your bloody _knickers_ on show – are you saying there was another interlude?”

“Uhhhh,” Imogen mumbled nervously, “there might have been.”

Both boys looked at her expectantly, eyebrows approaching their respective hairlines. They’d even stopped wriggling, Remus apparently giving up on removing James’ hands from his pockets.

“Bloody hell. _Fine._ He – we sort of almost snogged against a wall.”

James made a choked sound the bordered on laughter, eyes wide. “Shite,” he said, “I didn’t realise you were _that_ horny for each other.”

“We’re not _horny –_ it was a joke.”

“Some joke,” Remus muttered, but he was smiling.

Imogen scowled. “What’re _you_ grinning about?”

He shrugged, his smile growing. “Nothing! Just – it’s cute. You’re getting all indignant.”

“I _swear –_ ”

“Ssh!” James suddenly whispered, and then his hand was gripping her elbow, drawing her quickly to his side. “D’you hear that?”

Remus – weirdly – seemed to perk up, chin raised and eyes darting round. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

Imogen strained, and, sure enough, the faint echo of footsteps could be heard from the next corridor down, getting closer and clearer with each step. “Shit – where do we hide?”

“Uh,” James gulped, “there’s a couple tapestries – it’s a squeeze, but –”

“Doesn’t matter!” she hissed. “C’mon – go, _go!_ ” Planting her hands on each of their backs, she bundled them all into a tiny alcove behind a tapestry of a snake eating a small white bloom with which it was entwined, shoving James in first, then Remus, then squeezing in after just as the footsteps rounded the corner.

Imogen was sandwiched between the two boys; her face was smushed into Remus’ shoulder and the top of her head had become a perch for James’ chin. It was uncomfortable as all buggery – but each of them feared that, were they to move, they would be discovered. And so they stayed put: Remus, with his neck craned upwards to avoid overt pressure from the cold stonewall on his head; James, spine completely straight in an effort to take up as little space as possible; and Imogen, crammed between both of them, a mouthful of Remus’ cardigan muffling her breathing.

The tapestry – which had been swaying heavily, _dangerously_ after their entrance – came to a gentle halt, just as Imogen began to realise that the footsteps they’d been so hasty in avoiding was not just one pair, but two.

She strained. The original pair was heavier than the other. They were also more … hurried. Skittish. The lighter pair, in contrast, seemed to walk with purpose. The echoing _click, click, click_ of the heels – a girl’s shoe – was leisurely, but appeared to go on and on and on.

The sounds got closer. And closer. And closer.

Breathing. Two sets of lungs. The girl’s was calm, even – like her stride, it seemed completely at ease. The other, who Imogen could only assume was male, was almost panting.

“Stop,” the male voice said, and she very nearly gasped.

As it was, Imogen’s fingers merely tightened around Remus’, who – as he always would, despite confusion or circumstance – gave a gentle, reassuring squeeze back. But Imogen was not reassured.

The girl on the other side of the tapestry sighed. It was a lengthy one, full of contempt. “I suppose here’s as good a place as any.”

Marcus was quiet for a moment. Then, after a sound that could only be him swallowing thickly, “Tell me why we’re here.”

“Lucius and I are to be married this summer.”

Imogen tensed. _Narcissa Black._

There was a scoff. “You woke me in the dead of night so I could RSVP?” he sneered, velvet tones filled with Pureblood derision. For once, she was glad to hear it. “Uncharacteristically impulsive of you, ’ _Cissy._ ”

“You will attend the wedding.”

“I didn’t think you allowed Blood Traitors at family events.”

“You will bring the heathens you live with now,” Narcissa continued, and there was a horrible satisfaction to the way she hissed her command, “and you will prove yourself worthy.”

Marcus was silent.

“I do hope you haven’t developed any warm and fuzzy feelings for those _mudbloods_ , Selwyn.”

“Why do you need them?” his voice was even, but the consonants trembled and wavered in the thin night air. “What use do you have for them?”

“The Dark Lord needs them, not me.” Narcissa whispered, prideful. “He trusts us. He will trust _you,_ Selwyn, if you help. You can return to us –”

“ _Shut up._ Someone could be listening.”

“Who _cares_?” A rustling of fabric, as if Narcissa was grasping Marcus’ shirtsleeve, “He will rise – he will _rise,_ and there’s not one person in this castle who can stop that! Not even Dumbledore!”

“If He _needs you_ so much you’d do well to shut your prissy mouth.” Marcus seethed. “We’ll talk later, where it’s not so bloody suspicious. Goodnight, Narcissa.”

His footsteps echoed down the hall. After a moment, Narcissa followed, the click of her heels as consistent and tireless as they’d been when she’d entered.

Imogen was the first to emerge. Her heart was hurling itself against the cage of her ribs, so quick she almost couldn’t breathe, and her palms were slick with sweat. “Shite,” she muttered, mostly to herself.

“The _fuck_ was that?” James hissed, tugging his hands through his crop of black hair. “We’ve got to tell Dumbledore –”

“No.” Imogen said sharply. “No. We wait until tomorrow.”

“Are you _mad –_ ”

“I don’t have time to explain – but I know Marcus. I’ll talk to him about it.”

James’ expression was livid. “You better bloody tell me _everything_ tomorrow, Waters. Everything.”

Remus, who stood stone-faced beside him, nodded. “You’ve been keeping too many secrets lately, Imogen. You tell us – _all of us –_ everything at breakfast tomorrow, OK? You – it’s like you don’t tell half of your life. You can’t keep things like this secret.”

Imogen swallowed, but didn’t break their gazes. “I know,” she said, “tomorrow. I’ll tell you everything, tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys I’m typing this on the bus, just thought you should know. This is fun, although I’m fairly sure the guy sitting behind me is now sorely invested in this chapter, since HE’S BEEN READING OVER MY SHOULDER YES SIR I SEE YOU. I SEE YOU.
> 
> Sorry. Anyway, some thoughts on this segment of EPU!
> 
> Marcus’ redemption arc:  
> He’s questioning his belief system, as Imogen noticed before. I’m trying to convey that he’s seeing things from the other side, now. The kindness shown to him by his guardians, and from Imogen to Terence (and his budding flirtation with Marlene) is making him wonder if Pureblood Supremacy is all it’s cracked up to be. That’s all I can say for now.
> 
> I’ve gotten a few reviews about Marcus and Sirius fighting over Imogen, and I’m going to clear this up real quick: that’s not going to happen. Sorry guys, but Marcus and Imogen are close friends at best and bickering enemies at worst. I hate love triangles, as well, and I’m fairly sure Imogen wouldn’t tolerate two boys ‘fighting’ over her – not bloody cattle, as she’s mentioned.
> 
> The fight with Lily and Imogen will not be neglected! Things come to a head soonish between the two of them, and (of course) Immy has another run in with Bellatrix, which is most definitely not accidental.
> 
> I also wanted to discuss the concern that Imogen’s friends hold for her recklessness – it might seem a little bit like it ‘gets in the way’ of the action, but I’m trying to make this realistic. Her friends don’t know why she’s like this, apart from Lily and Marlene, and Imogen’s been a tad selfish lately, in that respect. So they’re going to be a bit miffed with her. I wanted to build a real foundation for her friendship with the Marauders and the Gryffindor girls, rather than just throwing them in there to boost her popularity. 
> 
> Next chapter: Lily and Imogen confront each other, the Halloween Ball draws close, dress shopping ensues. Other stuff too. 
> 
> Please read and review, I love hearing what you think! Ideas and politely worded suggestions (I have too many people writing things like “write more. quicker.” and to be perfectly honest it doesn’t make me want to continue, like people this is so much fun but it’s really disheartening when you get brusque) but only if you want. I don’t need reviews, I’m perfectly happy knowing that there are humans out there who read this. No pressure, guys. Love you all!


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